


Some Nights

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Fluff, Guide!John, Heat Cycles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Omega!John, Sentinel!Sherlock, Sentinel/Guide, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Teenlock, Unilock, alternate universe - alpha and omega, alternate universe - sentinel and guide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 56,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sentinel-alpha Sherlock Holmes has no interest in finding an omega-guide, but having pushed his body to its limit he no longer has a choice. He dreads being saddled with a mate.</p><p>Guide-omega John Watson has just lost his family and his chances at joining at the army. He has nothing left but a desolate future at some alpha's side.</p><p>If only they knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've long been fascinated with the sentinel/guide trope, and I couldn't resist plucking a few key details and mixing it up with my favorite alpha/omega trope. I have no idea where this story is going, but I hope it'll be worth the ride.

The air in the room smells of sweat and musk, the taste blooming heavily on the back of his tongue and sliding slickly down his throat. Sherlock pauses in the doorway, his instincts clamouring for an immediate retreat. Unfortunately, the two men standing directly behind him have been prepared in advance for just such a stunt: heavy hands land on his shoulders, guiding him forward towards the table that has been set up. A woman hovers beside it, smile painted and false, clutching a clipboard against her ample bosom. As he is forced into the chair, she makes a show of studying him and then using a no-scent ink pen to make a series of checkmarks on her paper.

"Showered, yes. Correct clothing, yes. Mouth washed..." She glances up, an impatient movement, and he rolls his eyes before parting his lips and breathing out. She leans down and sniffs before giving a satisfied nod. "Cleansing complete, then. Marvellous! You know, it's rare for us to have someone in here that's your age. We were surprised to be contacted by your brother. Most of the time the alphas we tend to are in their early teens, just after they come into their own. It's dangerous for you to be this old without an omega, you know."

Sherlock bares his teeth in lieu of a response, not appreciating how blatantly obvious she is being in her search for gossip that she can pass on to her colleagues. He'd not be here at all if it weren't for Mycroft's bloody interference, but that's all been said and done and he has no interest in discussing it with a stranger. "I believe I was sent here for a purpose," he drawls when she fails to suitably quail beneath the force of his glare. "If you are not going to be showing me the samples, I'll take my leave."

"Not so fast, Mr Holmes. We have the samples right here." She turns away, nodding towards one of the men, and he comes forward carrying a heavy silver tray. It's fairly small, and a small flicker of satisfaction flashes through Sherlock at the knowledge that so few omegas have been considered biologically and mentally compatible to him. Even if it means that he has fewer chance of finding an acceptable mate-guide, it is good to know that his body won't suffer him placed with just anyone.

He inclines his head and watches as the tray was set down. The cover is lifted to reveal two dozen small plastic cups, each half-filled with a thin, viscous fluid. Sherlock breathes in deeply, reacting against his will to the pure scent of omega. His mouth waters with the urge to taste, but he folds his hands upon his knee as though he is entirely unaffected. In spite of his best attempt at research, he has been unable to divine any information in regards to the samples. All he knows is that each one has been taken from an unbonded omega whose biology is compatible to his. That is all he needed to know. The next step is up to his body.

How he loathes this. It's pedestrian. His body might react to some idiot who is no better than Anderson, and who knows whether or not the omega will actually be able to fill in as a suitable guide? Sherlock despairs at the thought of ending up with someone like that, and yet his body and mind are beginning to betray him. He no longer has a choice in this, having pushed his ability to wait to the absolute limit. With deliberate slowness he reaches out and plucks one of the cups from the tray, bringing it to his lips and sipping. The taste is bitter, unpleasantly so, a shock after a scent that smells of lollipops and apples. With a curl of his lip he sets it down hastily, pushing it to the edge of the table. The woman offers him another mouthful of the cleansing wash to soothe his palate before he tries the next.

Cup after cup, taste after taste. Too sweet, too bitter, too cloying, too dark, too _stupid_. He rejects each one. In spite of himself he is growing frustrated, though he's careful to keep it from the woman. She, on the other hand, is becoming visibly annoyed and her eyes keep darting from the tray to Sherlock and back again. This clinic is famous for their ability to pair anyone, and a miscalculation on her part could mean she is out of a job. Sherlock smirks as he picks up the fourth to last cup, bringing it to his nose for a careful sniff. Trees, he notes, and tea, a sticky smell he can't identify, and gun oil. He tips the cup and opens his mouth.

The slick trickles onto his bottom lip and he freezes. Something deep in the recesses of his mind crows in triumph and his breath hitches. The woman's head snaps up. Sherlock ignores her, tilting the cup further to hasten the progress of its contents. The taste is even stronger than the smell, but no less appetizing. He swallows eagerly and it's like having a powerful shot of cocaine: the lingering vestiges of fog vanish, leaving him focused and clear for the first time in months. He can instantly see where he's gone wrong with his deductions on the last case he'd been following in the media, and had he possessed his phone he would have immediately sent an e-mail to the police with pertinent information about the murderer.

"You've found one?" she asks, not even bothering to wait for confirmation before she begins scanning her clipboard. Sherlock ignores her. Knowing that the cup is now mostly empty, he fights the urge to dip his finger in and swipe the remaining traces of slick that have stuck to the bottom so that he can have one last taste. Instead he places it gently on the table, not aside like the others, but just in front of him.

This is unprecedented. He wasn't expecting to find a taste that appeals to him, but now that he has he wonders about the omega it belongs to. So little can be divined from scent alone, but the gun oil gives him hope. The rest, dark and pain on the roof of his mouth, brings to mind possible thoughts of depression. Unfortunately, the tea and the sticky smell leave him little to work with. He leans back in his chair and folds his fingers together, waiting for the woman to find out the name of his possible mate.

"Oh dear."

"What?" Sherlock is instantly alert, scanning her face.

"I'm afraid a mistake has been made, Mr Holmes. That sample was not supposed to be included with your batch."

"Why not?"

"I... I can't tell you," she stammers, finally losing a bit of her composure in the fact of the snapped question. "I... um... that omega is no longer with us. According to my information, he has not been a part of our organization for a few weeks now."

"Did he bond with another alpha?" Sherlock presses.

"I don't know. As you know, this service is generally voluntary and when someone chooses to leave we aren't given a reason why," she replied. She looks back at the table, where a few cups remain to be tasted. "Perhaps you could try the remainder of the samples? If you don't find anyone else today, we'd be happy to have you back next week. As you know, we can do more extensive testing to discover the true particulars of your biology and your mental, emotional and spiritual self in the hopes that a more intimate match can be made -"

Sherlock turns away from her with an annoyed huff, snagging the empty cup and disregarding the remainder of her vapid speech. Demanding more information from her will not serve him, as no doubt she will eventually remember that she can hide behind the privacy laws. He strides towards the door of the room and this time is not stopped by the two men that had hindered his efforts to escape every time before. As the door closes behind his lanky form, the woman sighs.

"Thank god that's over," she says, tossing her clipboard onto the table and nearly sending the remaining samples splattering to the ground. 

"I suppose it would be too much to hope that he'd take the easy way out."

She turns to face the newly opened door, unsurprised to see the young man standing there. The only part of him that can be seen is the tip of an umbrella, still against the tiled floor. "Is that what you expected? We did present all of the samples, as you requested." And she'd hesitated over that, because it is technically against procedure to present an alpha with their sample when an omega asked to be removed from the program, against medical advice or not. It seems cruel to give that boy hope.

"My brother has never done _anything_ the easy way, I'm afraid, so I don't see why this should be any different." There is a pause, just long enough to make her fidget, before the cool voice continues. "I expect that all record of this shall be erased, as per our agreement."

She swallows hard. "Yes sir."


	2. Chapter 2

It's been just over three months, ten weeks at the most, and still the familiar, bitter taste of bile rises in the back of John's throat when he catches a glimpse of the little building. It's set neatly between a shop and a cafe that sells delicious-looking pastries, not that he's ever had the opportunity to try them. His stomach is usually too upset to eat beforehand, and afterwards it's all he can do to keep from punching something or some _one_ never mind taking the time to stop and buy food. 

His footsteps grow slower and heavier the closer he gets and it takes him nearly a minute to climb the three steps. He pushes the door open and surveys the empty corridor behind the greeting desk, already knowing where to go. The receptionist gives him a kind smile as he walks by, a sentiment he does not bother to return as he walks all the way to the end of the hall. This door is shut too but he does not knock and it bounces open a little harder than he intended when he gives it a good shove, striking the opposite wall with enough force that it's only a raised hand which stops it from hitting him square in the nose.

Predictably, Ella does not look surprised by his entrance. "Hello, John," she says calmly, tilting her head in that way that he has come to hate. "You're right on time. Why don't you sit down and we can get started?"

John glares at her but obeys, sinking down into the green chair that's perfectly positioned right across from her desk. "I haven't changed my mind."

"I know. Do you want to tell me why?"

"You know why."

"I'd like it if we could discuss it."

The taste of vomit is stronger now. "I don't want to be a guide," he grits out. "I want to join the army. Just because I can't do that anymore doesn't mean I'm going to resign myself to a life at the side of some sentinel." He looks away from her gaze, out the window. It's a gorgeous day, bright and sunny, and he hates it all. "I submitted my sample for the three months, just like the law says I have to, and no sentinel was paired with me so that means I had the option to take myself out of the running and I did. I'm not putting myself back in, either."

Ella just keeps looking at him. "Have you considered what will happen when you lose control?" she asks gently. "When you go into heat? You know it's inevitable. John." She waits, the silence dragging, until he glances at her before she continues, "All omegas go into heat eventually. You've been fortunate so far, but going into heat without a sentinel to focus on is extremely dangerous for you and everyone around you."

"I don't care," John says bluntly. Maybe he'll be one of the lucky ones and he'll never go into heat, never be triggered. If not, there are suppressants – expensive, yes, but he’s more than willing to find a job and pay for them. 

"Perhaps you might be happier with a beta sentinel," she presses, like this isn't something they've discussed before. "Alpha sentinels and omega guides form the strongest bonds, but the bond between a beta sentinel and an omega guide is perfectly adequate."

"I don't want a sentinel." His voice is so cold that he barely recognizes it. "Much less a beta."

"I was afraid of this," Ella says with a sigh. "I take it you haven't spoken to Mary."

John doesn't bother keeping his snort to himself. "Why the hell would I want to talk to her?" he demands rudely. "She played me for almost four months, made me think that she actually cared about me, that what I am didn’t matter to her. And then when I was just about to get something I've always wanted -" His throat closes up, preventing him from saying anything else. He can't talk about Mary, about how she went running to the army to tell them the truth: that he wasn't a beta guide, but an omega guide. The sting is still too fresh, too painful.

"Mary cares about you. I understand that you feel like she didn't do the right thing, but she was trying to protect you."

"Protect me? How? By taking away any chance I had at actually having a decent life on my own terms? I could've made it in the army. I'm no wilting flower, I'd have been fine. I passed all of the tests and no one was the wiser!" John is getting progressively louder with every word until he's shouting, but he knows better than to think someone will come to check on them. He ends up yelling a lot when he's in Ella's office. No matter how many times he comes in swearing that he won't let her press his buttons like this, she always seems to know just what to say to provoke a reaction. 

"You're an _omega _. You would've gone into heat and put everyone around you in danger, particularly if it triggered you into a swoon… and you know that the older you get without a sentinel, the more likely it is that could happen.”__

__"That wouldn't have happened."_ _

__"It's impossible to know that. Mary made the right decision. Legally, she could have got in trouble if you'd been found out and they realized that she knew all this time.”_ _

__"I don't care," John says flatly, because he really doesn't. Ella can pretend all she wants that Mary did it to protect John, but the truth of the matter is that Mary did it for herself. She didn't want him to go, had told him that several times, and when he refused to stay she'd decided to do whatever it took to keep him from going. And worst of all, he can still remember the look on her face when he got the letter refusing his admittance. She'd been so damn proud, preening like she was expecting to be praised for her actions. Even now she looks at him like a wounded puppy that is incapable of understanding anger, and it drives him around the bend._ _

__Ella sighs again like John is the one who is being unreasonable. “Statistically, as you are right now, there is a very high probability that you are going to end up in a permanent state of swooning. Is that what you want? To spend the rest of your life untethered because you were too stubborn to find a sentinel you can focus on? I’ve seen omegas and betas fall to that before.” Her expression tightens, changing from her calm mask for the first time. “Believe me, it’s not something you want.”_ _

__John meets her stare, refusing to back down. “If that’s what it comes to.”_ _

__“You’re so stubborn,” she breathes, like it’s the saddest thing she’s ever heard, and he clenches his hands into fists._ _

__“Just because I’m an omega –”_ _

__“It has nothing to do with that and you know it. You’re being stubborn because you’re afraid.”_ _

__Her words cut deeper than he wants to admit. “I won’t waste my life at the side of some alpha sentinel who wants to make all of my decisions and run my life for me. If that’s my only other option, I’d rather swoon for good. At least then I wouldn’t know what’s going on.” Not for the first time, he wishes he’d been born a beta. He’d still have this hanging over his head, but the potential for swooning gets a lot higher when heat is involved and they both know that._ _

__“I can see that you’ve made up your mind,” Ella says quietly, leaning back in her chair. “But I wish you would at least keep an open mind. Having an alpha sentinel may not be as bad as you think.”_ _

__John laughs, standing up. “And you’d know,” he says, nostrils flaring as he takes in her scent. Her bland, unassuming beta scent, untainted even by guide or sentinel. She’s so _normal_ and he’s tired of this, of her trying to talk him into a life he doesn’t want and never planned on having. Years of plans in the bin and she expects him to just give up._ _

__“John –”_ _

__“I’m not coming back,” he says, rudely cutting her off. “Three months of sessions, that was my mandatory sentence, and it’s over.” He walks out, not waiting to hear what else she has to say, and the sound of her voice trails off behind him. The last few months have been hellish, but he finally feels a little sense of freedom as he lets the door swing shut heavily behind him._ _


	3. Chapter 3

For a few breathless minutes, hours, days, Sherlock's mind is clear. He sees everything and takes it all in, making accurate deductions that leave people sputtering in his wake, that have the police demanding to know how he came to his conclusions. It's just the way it was when he was younger, before puberty kicked in and all of this need spoiled everything, only _better_. 

Predictably, it does not last long.

He comes awake in his bed with a rotten taste in his mouth, like apples that have been left out in the sun for too long, head pounding and lights flickering dangerously at the corners of his eyes. Every sensation is overwhelming when he sits up and he leans forward, gritting his teeth against the urge to vomit all over the floor. It takes several seconds before he feels steady enough to get to his feet, and even then his legs nearly buckle underneath his weight. It's like coming down from a high, only this is something his body is genetically hardwired to need: not something that Sherlock has taught it to think it needs. The contrast is staggering, the headache even worse.

"I knew this was a bad idea," he mutters bitterly, the sound of his own voice grating and harsh. Grimacing, he kicks aside a pair of soiled boxers and slouches out of the room. Somehow the lights are even brighter in the corridor. He shields his eyes and trundles down the stairs, trying not to think about how much worse this is going to get. Now that he knows a suitable mate is out there, has tasted their essence, his body is rebelling against him. It's tedious, horrifying, and he hates it but there's no way to change things now. Not after the first taste. It is so much easier to fight temptation before it has a name.

When the maid catches sight of him she gives a little squeak, her face flushing pink. Sherlock glares at her until she scurries out of the room. Only then does he move to sit down at the table, glaring moodily at the cup of tea that has already been poured for him. It will either taste like nothing or everything and he's no longer sure which is more awful. He only knows that he's growing tired of this, and even though he considers himself to be a man that can be pushed to the absolute limit he is swiftly growing uncertain as to how much more he can take before he'll slip into a zone that no one can pull him out of.

"You're naked," Anthea says mildly, breaking the quiet as she nudges the pot of honey closer to him.

Sherlock blinks at her and then scowls. "I didn't want to put anything on," he says, which is true. It's also true that he forgot about clothing.

Her mouth tugs into a frown, sympathy causing little lines to form at the corners of her eyes. She likes him, much as she's tried not to. She's been a staple of his life for the past god knows how many years, ever since Mycroft stumbled across her and hired her as an assistant. Anthea only worked for him for about six months before Mycroft zoned, one distraction too many after days without rest, and she pulled him out of it with such ease that neither of them had ever looked back. Of course, that's not the official story that the public knows. Officially she and Mycroft had the test done for convenience sake after discovering how well they worked together, received news that they were more than compatible, and never looked back.

"Having something to eat," she says softly, her voice canted low enough to soothe and with just a hint of power in it. She picks up the spoon and drizzles some honey into his tea. "It will make you feel better, sweetheart."

He must look truly awful if she's calling him 'sweetheart'. It's the sort of nickname Sherlock would never tolerate from anyone else, and he only accepts it from Anthea because it causes Mycroft to make the most jealously pinched face whenever he hears it. He slumps down in his seat and sulks as he brings the cup up to his mouth, sipping at the heated liquid carefully. It burns across his tongue and down his throat and he can't say it helps, but Anthea smiles at him like she's proud and maybe that makes it a tiny bit worth it. 

The cup is half empty by the time Mycroft joins them, still straightening his tie absentmindedly. He rolls his eyes as soon as he spots his little brother. "Really?" he asks, mouth pursing in distaste as he sinks down into the other chair.

"Change the law and you won't have to worry about it anymore," says Sherlock, casting a glare up at his brother. He resents the fact that he's not allowed, by law, to live on his own. Considering his age and the fact that he’s an alpha sentinel, he's at too much risk of falling into a zone. And if there's no one around to pull him out of it relatively quickly, it'll become permanent. Mycroft is the only family he has and that means they're stuck together, if only because Mycroft has made it clear that he will not hesitate to call the police should Sherlock choose to move out without a companion of some sort.

"The law is there for your protection." Mycroft sighs as he drops a kiss onto Anthea's head, lingering close to her in a way that turns Sherlock's stomach. Never in his life has he wanted any part of that until now. 

He drops his gaze to the cup of tea in his hand. The cup is porcelain, a part of the delicate set that Anthea inherited from Mummy. It's mostly white with a tiny black skull painted on the handle near the bottom: Mummy's somewhat macabre sense of humour at its finest, she always did love the expression on the faces of her guests when they noticed the unusual decoration. His tea is mostly gone, all that remains is a thin stream of gold on the side of the cup from the honey Anthea drizzled in and a small sludge of black liquid at the very bottom. He swirls the cup absently, fascinated by the way they smear together against the backdrop of white, not even noticing when the world around the edge of the cup begins to blur - 

"Sherlock?"

And he's never noticed before, but his cup has a small chip in it. He knows it's his cup because, were he to flip it over and spills the contents, there would be a stylized S on the bottom. Mummy had helped him to paint it there one day, and Anthea hadn't had it erased even though she could have. He can still smell the touch of paint, overwhelmed now by soap and tea and honey, and every time he sets the cup down on the table he can hear the slight difference in pitch between painted porcelain and unpainted porcelain making contact with the wood –

“ _Sherlock_.” 

A warm hand rests on his shoulder, fingers digging in sharp, and darkness flows smoothly over his eyes. For a split, terrifying second he is deaf, blind, cut off from the world around him as Anthea forcibly reboots his system. In the next instant everything snaps back into place, like a flipped switch, and he inhales sharply and winces at the brilliance of the light and the influx of sound. Anthea wavers next to him, her face gone grey, and he loops an arm around her waist without thinking. She leans against him and, loathe though he may be to admit it, the extra contact with a guide does help.

He breathes deeply and glances around for his brother. Mycroft had risen as well, but unlike Anthea he remains safely on the other side of the table. His face is painted in visible concern, which for him is akin to an embrace. “You’re zoning more easily by the day,” he says quietly, already knowing about the headache that is now pulsing at Sherlock’s temples. 

Sherlock drops his gaze and presses his lips together, hating that Mycroft is right. It’s not something he can control, either, not when he doesn’t even notice it’s happening until Anthea or another guide pulls him out of it. She’s the best at it, but it’s wearing on her: he can feel the way she’s trembling from exertion. “I suppose someday soon you won’t need to worry about seeing me naked,” he remarks dully, pushing his chair back and standing. He swings Anthea around gently, depositing her into the chair, before he walks out.

Mycroft does not follow, and he makes it up the stairs and into his room unquestioned. The darkness is welcoming to his tired eyes so he doesn’t bother with the light, perching restlessly on the edge of his bed, rising again almost immediately and striding over to his desk. Strewn across the surface are numerous letters, bits of clippings, old photographs and scribbled notes, some with writing so old that the ink is so faded it’s barely legible. One name has been circled repeatedly.

Moriarty.


	4. Chapter 4

When John wakes up, he knows before he opens his eyes that he is not alone. The thick scent of liquor is strong in the room, lingering, and he lets out a ragged cough. “I’ve told you before that I don’t like it when you come in here smelling like a drunk,” he says hoarsely, rolling over onto his belly and staring accusingly at the intruder. “You make my room stink.”

“Don’t be such a baby, Johnny.” Harry’s eyes are wide and blue and she’s not drunk despite the fact that she smells like she took a bath in beer, but her hands tremble a little.

“And don’t call me Johnny, either.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck you’re bitchy in the morning,” she says casually, running a finger along his covers. She wrinkles her nose when she comes to an obvious wet patch. “Having a bit of trouble adjusting to the reality of life, hmm?”

John bares his teeth and growls, not liking the implication of her comment. Harry had gone along with the plans of their parents for years. She’d taken to the suppressants just as well as he had, but now that their parents were dead and their new guardian ascribed to a more traditional way of thinking she was acting like she’d been forced into taking them. “Mom and Dad wanted us to be normal.”

Or as normal as sentinel-betas and guide-betas could get.

“Normal is so over-rated. You should see some of the things I’ve been learning to do. I might be late at it, but it’s incredible.”

So incredible it drives you to drink? John doesn’t say it, but the words are bitter on his tongue. It doesn’t take a sentinel to see the strain in her face, the pallor of her skin and the bruising beneath her eyes. She hasn’t slept well for weeks, too overloaded by what the suppressants have been holding back for years, but damned if she’ll ever admit to it. He shakes his head. “Maybe for you, but not for me. You’re a sentinel-alpha, Harry. Things are different for you.”

“Johnny –”

“Stop calling me that!” He sits up, liking how it puts them on more equal footing. She’s only a few minutes older than him, but that’s never stopped Harry from acting like it’s years that separate them. Not for the first time he wonders why she was the alpha, the sentinel, while he got stuck with the rest.

“Okay, okay, don’t cream yourself.”

As soon as the words are out she winces. John goes cold. “Get out.”

“John, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Get out,” he repeats, shaking hands hid beneath the covers, and after a moment of staring at him like she’s willing him to change his mind Harry gets up. 

“I didn’t mean to say that,” she says, backing towards the door. “I just came in to talk. I miss you. I barely see you anymore.”

“That’s not my fault,” John says. He’s tempted to add in a cutting remark about how her new, derogatory comments about omegas, sprinkled here and there in casual conversation now, won’t earn her any more time with him, but he settles for a hot glare. This is the first time she’s ever said anything along those lines to him and it scares him. “Get. Out.”

Harry sighs loudly but obeys, muttering something about how bossy he is, the words and her scent tinged strongly with guilt. The door closes behind her and John exhales, feeling shaky. He barely recognizes Harry now. Ever since she went off the suppressants and began attending an exclusive school for late blooming sentinel-alphas, she’s become a completely different person. She drinks more and laughs too loud and never has a kind word to say about their parents; they’ve become the enemy and John doesn’t know how to defend them, what they used to be, anymore. 

He pushes the covers back and gets out of bed, grimacing at the way the sticky cloth of his boxers clings to him. He hasn’t gone into heat (yet) but every morning he wakes up with slick smeared on his thighs, like his body is determined to make up for years of neglect all at once. Residual pleasure tingles along his thighs and up his spine as he stands beneath the heat of the shower, water bouncing off of his shoulders and rolling down his back. He touches himself cautiously, moving the washcloth between his legs with a grimace. 

Being this sensitive is still new, still strange, and he can’t help the way his breath hitches when the cloth is pressed between his buttocks against his entrance. The skin there is puffy and swollen with need and his eyes flutter shut as he rubs. Even when he’s clean he doesn’t stop, pressing a little more firmly, breathing through the sting of the rough cloth rubbing at tender, untouched flesh. Every morning the desire to explore gets a little stronger and today, he can’t help it. The cloth drops to the floor with a wet sound as his fingers take over.

He slides the tip of one finger in tentatively, gasping at the feel of the heat surrounding him. His insides are hot and his slick eases the way of a finger all the way in, too fast. Even the awkward angle doesn’t detract from the sensation of having something inside of him for the first time, the way a knot in his chest, unnoticed until now, abruptly loosens. His knees go weak and he controls his descent, sliding down the wall until he’s propped up on his knees. He breathes deeply, in and out, until his heads stops spinning.

Never been touched, not like this, and the thought makes his face go red as he yanks his finger back out and fists his hands. The water keeps falling on his head, washing away the evidence but not the ache. For weeks now he’s been telling himself that he doesn’t need this, won’t ever want it, could control it through determination alone. He’s not prepared for how hollow he feels. Having had something there, even small, was foolish: his body hungers for more, arsehole clenching around air like his body can’t understand why it would be left empty so soon. 

John stares at the floor of the tub for a few seconds, mind blank, before he reaches back. Arousal pools in his belly, warm and sweet, when he pushes two fingers in. It’s even better than one, a little more of a stretch, a little more burn, and he gulps in air desperately. His cock hangs hard and full between his thighs and each time he pushes his fingers in deeper it jerks, splatters of pre-come vanishing into the rain of water, and his balls are drawing up tight even though he’s barely touched himself.

“Oh god,” he whispers, throat tight, and squeezes his eyes tight. Spreading his knees for extra balance, he fists his cock with his free hand and moans at the full body shudder the touch provokes. He doesn’t really need this, the sensations from his arse alone are strong enough to provoke an orgasm, but he can’t come just from that alone. Not yet. He’s not ready to sink so low. Not ready to think about what it means that his hole is slick, the way made easy for his fingers as his body eagerly produces lubrication in anticipation of something more.

A steady, soft litany of moans fill the steamy room as he begins to pump, trying to pick up on a rhythm, torn between pushing forward into his hand and thrusting back against his fingers. It’s all sharp angles of pleasure, overwhelming and blinding, and he can’t stop. He tightens his grip on his cock, twisting his wrist just the way he likes it, and shoves back forcefully and curls his fingers down. The resulting jolt tears a hoarse cry out of him and he’s coming before he knows it, trembling as he sinks weakly against the wall of the shower.

The water washes away his come as John slowly slides his fingers free, already missing the feeling of having something pressed inside. He holds his hands beneath the stream and watches as the rest of the evidence disappears. All that’s left is the little bit of an ache between his thighs but it’s a good ache, the kind that comes from muscles being used the way they’re supposed to – and that’s exactly why he’s never done this, damn it, he’s more than just a waiting hole for any alpha to sink their greediness into.

“Fuck,” he mutters, shivering and turning his face into the water, still hot because of the extra-large water tank their guardian installed like it means something. He’d give it up, gladly take cold showers every day for the rest of his life, if he could have his parents back and not have to deal with this. He lets the water wash away the last bit of evidence, the salty tears he can’t keep from falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There won't be a chapter next week; just so you know.


	5. Chapter 5

“He’s not going to thank you for interfering, you know.”

The building tension that has been steadily tightening up up the muscles in Mycroft’s back and shoulders abruptly eases as soon as Anthea’s hands slide around his neck. She leans forward against him, her cheek against his ear, so that her dark hair falls like a curtain around his face, enfolding him in the sweet scent of the vanilla shampoo she loves to use. Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in deeply, taking a few seconds to enjoy her proximity and the locked door before he responds.

“Sherlock never thanks me for anything,” he says at last, because the relationship between he and his brother has always been convoluted at best and he doesn’t expect that to change anytime soon. “I refuse to sit idly by and watch a brilliant sentinel-alpha waste away into nothing for no reason other than sheer stubbornness.”

Anthea sighs. “No, and I understand where you’re coming from. I’m worried about him too.”

It’s instinct to protest, to claim that he’s not _worried_ , but Mycroft doesn’t bother. Anthea knows him better than that by now, knows that Sherlock has been and always will be the most important thing in his life. There are few lengths Mycroft won’t go to in order to protect his little brother from harm. His hope that Sherlock would find someone has diminished year after year until he was left feeling as though he had no choice but to step in. It’s not something he’s done on a whim and even Sherlock is aware of that, much as he might try to resist it.

“Even I wasn’t expecting this,” he admits instead, glancing down at the file. He had insisted that the clinic give Sherlock every possible opportunity to find an omega-guide, even to the point where they included samples that technically should have been removed from the running. Sherlock needed that extra bit of help. The boy his brother has chosen, however…

“John Watson.” Lifting one of her hands, Anthea reaches past him to pick up the photograph of the young man with blue eyes and dirty blond hair. The information in the file is scarce at best, with most of the details coming from the last handful of months after Watson’s true nature was discovered by officials – and even that matter is suspiciously lacking in specifics. It’s not nearly as thorough as Mycroft wants it to be, and not for the first time he has the uneasy sense that something is not right.

“If Sherlock were willing, I’d try to encourage him to find someone else.”

“You know that rarely works,” Anthea chides gently. “Sherlock’s imprinted. Even if you could find another match who was just as good or better biologically, spiritually, mentally _and_ emotionally, I doubt that Sherlock would be interested. He wants this boy.” She shakes the paper lightly for emphasis. “You should tell Sherlock who he is. Let him be the one to approach.”

Mycroft’s not sure that’s a good idea. Sherlock is impulsive for all of his intelligence; he often fails to think a situation through and ends up blindsided by the consequences later on. He’s seen it happen before, and, while normally Mycroft can and does step in to smooth things over, this situation is different. After so long of being cut off from a future mate, it’s doubtful Sherlock will be able to control himself. If Watson were equally enamoured that would be one thing, but…

“Mycroft.”

“I don’t want to.”

Anthea laughs a little at the petulant tone, shaking her head as she steps around to face him. She sits down on his lap, her dark eyes sober. “Darling, you can’t keep them apart. If you do, Sherlock will die. Or eventually he’ll fall into a zone that I can’t pull him out of and… and for him, that’s _worse_ than death. You know that better than anyone. I don’t want that to happen to our little brother. Please, Mycroft.”

He's never had the ability to resist Anthea anything, but especially not now. Mycroft closes his eyes, resigned, and wraps a gentle arm around her waist. She's a solid weight in his lap and he loves it, hopes that someday Sherlock will be able to have this with his own guide. "Very well, my dear, you've convinced me. You can take the file to Sherlock and explain to him where his guide is located."

"And just where will you be?" she asks, her lips curving into a grin.

Mycroft settles for kissing her on the cheek in lieu of a response, and it ends up being dark by the time Anthea actually leaves, her hair a good deal messier than before and with a range of new bruises adorning her neck and shoulders. Mycroft sees her off with one of his drivers, lingering to watch her go before he climbs into a car himself. He gives the address to the driver and settles back against the seat to watch the scenery pass by the windows. He still doesn't like this, but he knows enough to realize that Anthea is right and no amount of protesting or lagging is going to change facts. Sherlock needs to mate with Watson, if only to gain stability and keep himself from falling into a zone. 

Of course, Watson is also at risk of falling into a swoon but all of the records Mycroft has managed to gather indicate he's not overly concerned about that. The odds need to be evened a little and Mycroft knows exactly how to do it.

The flat where John Watson is staying with his sister and guardian is located in the heart of downtown London. At this time of the day the street is fairly quiet, devoid of anyone who might be around to cause trouble, and Mycroft makes it to the front door unnoticed. He tries the knob - locked, of course - and then steps aside so that his driver can pick the lock. The man is proficient at his job, opening the door in less than ten seconds, and then returning to the car when Mycroft gives him a short nod. He enters the flat alone, unquestioned, and gently closes the door behind him.

Twenty minutes later, when Watson finally walks in right on schedule, he doesn't notice Mycroft. At first. The boy is surprisingly unobservant. He removes his bag from his shoulders and tosses it in the direction of the sofa, then takes his coat and shoes off and walks towards the kitchen. He pauses before he gets there, though, senses finally kicking in belatedly to let him know that something is not right. He turns slowly, blue eyes wide, and freezes at the sight of Mycroft. Automatically his hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for a weapon that is nowhere to be found, before he goes still.

"Good evening, Mr Watson," Mycroft says mildly.

"Who are you?" Watson demands. "How did you get in here?" 

"I used the door. That's not a very good lock you have, by the way. You might want to have your guardian look into that."

Watson's jaw visibly tightens. "Who. Are. You."

"An interested party."

"In what?"

"You."

"Me? Why? I haven't done anything."

"Exactly," Mycroft says, and it comes out a bit colder than it really should have. "That's the problem."

"That's - okay, I'm calling the police." Watson turns, heading for the phone, and Mycroft tutts softly.

"I wouldn't bother. Any phone calls you make for the next fifteen minutes will get no further than a team of specially trained operatives who have been told to ignore them. I needed some time alone to speak with you, Mr Watson, about Sherlock Holmes, and I made sure I was going to get it."

The name seizes Watson's attention immediately, his face wrinkling up into a frown. "Sherlock Holmes? What kind of name is - no, you know what, I don't know anyone by that name. I'm not sure who you are, but you've clearly got the wrong person. You're not supposed to be here, this is private property and you're trespassing. Get out or I'll use my mobile phone to call the police."

Mycroft refrains from pointing out that, of course, Watson's phone is included in the calls that his team has been told to catch. "Sherlock Holmes is a name that you will come to know quite well, seeing as how he is the sentinel-alpha who imprinted on you through the clinic."

For a split second an expression of utter terror flashes across Watson's face. He recovers quickly, saying, "No one imprinted on me. I'd have been told. And I took my sample out of rotation over a week ago, so now I'm certain that you have the wrong person."

"John Watson, age eighteen, recently graduated near the top of his class. Wanted to join the army, had his acceptance revoked after it was discovered that he was an omega-guide." Mycroft's eyes flick up to meet Watson's and he smiles insincerely. "That is you, correct? You've got a sentinel-alpha now, one who is deteriorating rapidly. As are you, judging by the circles under your eyes and the weight you've lost recently. I suggest you become accustomed to the idea."

"I don't want -"

"Don't you?" Mycroft stands now, moving closer with a couple of longer steps. Watson stiffens but makes no effort to move away, and Mycroft says, "You're fading quickly, finding a lack of interest in food and life in general. You have no hopes, dreams or aspirations for the future. You want to help people, you just don't know how, and your body is betraying you. I can smell the change in your scent." He leans a bit closer, inhaling deeply. Yes, the boy is particularly fragrant and he can tell why Sherlock wants this one. "You may tell yourself that the idea of a sentinel-alpha is abhorrent, but secretly you crave it. Having someone to care for, someone who will care for you..."

Watson's mouth opens but nothing comes out. Mycroft takes the opportunity to push past, departing without further word. He's used his time alone in the flat wisely, spreading Sherlock's scent around liberally, and now all they need do is wait.


	6. Chapter 6

The second the man – Holmes, he thinks – leaves the flat, John locks the door. Not that it apparently does much good if he believes the comment Holmes made, but the increased bit of security, however small, makes him feel slightly better. That done, he moves to the windows and makes certain that those are locked as well. Instinct has him wanting to get away from the glass after that, too conscious of the fact that anyone watching the flat will be able to see him with no problem, but he lingers. There’s no sign of Holmes out on the street, but that doesn’t mean he’s not out there. 

“The hell was his problem?” he mutters to himself, trying not to think too closely about what Holmes said. A sentinel-alpha? After all this time? The thought makes him uneasy with the possibility. The clinics are designed to find the best possible match between sentinel and guide, alpha and omega, for those who aren’t fortuitous enough to find one on their own. They make a fortune off of it and it’s all legal, even mandated: by law, as soon as they come of age they’re required to submit a sample for matching for at least three months. And even then it’s strongly suggested that the sample be left active and refreshed on a monthly basis until such time when it’s no longer necessary. 

Until now John’s thought of himself as lucky. He’d agreed to the three months because he had no choice, but he doesn’t want a sentinel or an alpha, much less both. When he’d gone to remove himself from the database and the nurse had confirmed he hadn’t been matched he figured he was safe. The idea of a sentinel-alpha having _imprinted_ on him after the fact… imprinting’s just this side of permanent, the sort of match that clinics brag about making during their advertisements, and requires so little to _become_ permanent that he shivers. This has to be a mistake.

The sound of a key at the lock makes him jump and he turns, too quickly, knocking a lamp off of the table. He stoops down to retrieve it and hears the door open, the entering footsteps pause. “John?”

“I’m fine,” John says to the floor, not glancing at his guardian as he stands again. “You just startled me, that’s all. No damage.” He trails his fingers across the lamp as proof, the glass base surprisingly warm against his flesh. Or maybe his hands are just cold.

“I see.” There’s a long, expectant pause, and when John looks up reluctantly Sebastian is just standing there watching him. There’s a faint frown tugging at his lips, but then that’s not necessarily unusual. It seems like Sebastian often wears that look when John is around, like he’s trying to figure out how best to get inside of John’s head. Harry likes to say he’s just paranoid and looking for a reason to not like Sebastian, but…

He contemplates, briefly, telling Sebastian about the strange encounter. Holmes, if that’s even the man’s name, hadn’t given much information, he’d been deliberately cryptic, but John does have a name. Sherlock Holmes. Surely that’s enough for the police to go off of? He should be giving as much detail as possible about the man who essentially broke into their flat and threatened him.

And yet, doing his best not to fidget under Sebastian’s cool brown gaze, he doesn’t feel anxious to share anything. It will only encourage Sebastian to come down that much harder, limit John’s life even more than he already has, and he already chafes under the restrictions that Sebastian has placed on him. No army, no university, no life with his own decisions: just a future as a helpless little guide-omega, being prepped a little too late for some cocky sentinel-alpha, because, although Sebastian hasn’t mentioned anyone yet, it’s only a matter of time until he starts trying to arrange a match since – as far as he knows – the clinic didn’t come through.

John shifts, fighting not to fidget, knowing that he barely gets the chance to do much more than work at the little bookstore down the street and then come home as it is. Most of his friends from school drifted away after the death of his parents; he’d only tried to remain in contact with those headed to the army because he thought he’d be joining them, and then when that avenue had been taken from he’d figured there wasn’t much point. Reading letters from those who were living the life he wanted only served to make him bitter, and this was hard enough with tantalizing bits being dangled in front of his face. 

No, Sebastian doesn’t need to know.

“John?”

John blinks, startled. “What?”

“I said I want to talk to you about Mary.” 

Even after all this time his instinctive reaction is still anger, bitter. “I don’t.”

“She misses you very much, you know, and she regrets what happened between you two. She wants to meet you for coffee. If you’re interested, I’ll permit you to go.”

Because Sebastian has always condoned Mary, of course he has, and John hadn’t seen that for what it meant until it was too late. He shifts his weight more obviously this time and shakes his head. “I’ll meet with her if you’re willing to allow me to go to uni,” he says, the hint of a challenge more evident than it should be.

Sebastian sighs impatiently. “We’ve spoken about this already. I’m not sure why you continue to think that more school is an option for you right now. You know that the rest of your education will depend on the kind of work that your sentinel-alpha does.”

“That’s archaic!” John snaps, knowing that Sebastian won’t take kindly to his fevered words but unable to keep calm. Restlessness burns under his skin. “No one thinks that way now, Sebastian. It’s not like it used to be.” Because it was the way, once, when the life of a guide-omega was planned out to the last detail for their sentinel-alpha’s benefit. Some people have changed, realized that guide-omegas deserve their own life, but others… “I can go to school for whatever I want and I don’t need your permission, not really. I’m of age now.”

“Really?” Sebastian says coolly. “Then why are you still here, then?”

“I…” John stops, stares at him. “What?”

“You complain constantly about my way of doing things, and yet you’ve never made any effort to leave. If you’re so confident about the way you want to live your life, then go.” Sebastian steps aside smoothly, revealing the door. His smile is mocking. “I won’t keep you here. But I warn you, John. I have friends in high places, friends that could give you exactly what you want. If you’re willing to play by their rules. The army has _nothing_ on them in terms of… adventures.”

“What kind of adventure?” John asks slowly.

“That depends. Sabotage, spying, whatever might be required of a guide-omega that no one will think twice about. You could be a very valuable asset to my boss, John. And let me assure you, he’s the kind of man who pays back loyalty.”

The offer sounds incredibly tempting. It’s easier to stay, to believe that Sebastian is telling the truth and think no more of it… and that’s exactly why John finds himself hesitating. This sounds a little too much like the sort of things Harry has been filling his ears with late at night, when she talks about her school and what she plans to do when she graduates. He doesn’t like the idea of being a _valuable asset_ , because when it comes right down to it that means belonging to someone, playing by their rules, and John Watson is no one’s plaything.

He straightens his shoulders and turns, striding down the hall to his bedroom, half-expecting Sebastian to follow but the man doesn’t. John’s heart is beating wildly as he looks around the room, trying to think about what he wants to take with him. There’s a suitcase under his bed and he drags it out, piles in clothing and the things he can’t leave behind: mementoes of his parents, a couple of pictures, a stuffed bear dressed in an army uniform that Harry gave him when he was a toddler.

His room is an absolute mess by the time he’s done and it doesn’t help, he knows there are things he’s leaving behind but it’s hard to stop and think when adrenaline is coursing through him. Half of him feels like he’s making a mistake, but the other half is determined to make it out the door before Sebastian changes his mind. He zips up the case and grabs his coat, tossing it on.

Surprisingly, even when he comes back into the room with his suitcase Sebastian makes no move to stop him. John gets all the way to the door, even has it open, before Sebastian says, “Legally you are not allowed to live on your own, at the risk of sliding into a swoon. I won’t hesitate to call the police on you.”

“Fuck you,” John mutters without turning around, stomach tightening. “I don’t need you _or_ your boss, Moran.”

“Your sister doesn’t feel that way.”

The reminder of Harry stings, his fingers jumping against the knob, but John doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. He shuts the door in Sebastian’s face.


	7. Chapter 7

All things considered, John Watson turns out to be easier to find than Sherlock anticipated. He cups his hands around the hot cup of tea, watching as the four young men in the corner all share a laugh. The blond, the one he’s already identified as John, leaves off the other three with a grin that disappears as soon as his mates are out of the café. Shoulders slumping in genuine exhaustion, John meanders behind the counter and tips his chin in greeting towards the next patron waiting to be served. 

Interesting. Not at all what Sherlock was expecting, but then it’s hardly surprising that his mate is an enigma. The file Mycroft procured on John Watson is already out of date, as the data indicated John lived with his unnamed guardian and his sister Harry Watson and worked part-time at a bookstore. Five days later, when Sherlock tracked him down, John’s working at a little corner café. Sherlock had yet to figure out where he’s staying, but judging by what he can read from John’s clothing the conditions of the shelter could stand to improve.

Come just after three, it’s time for John to leave. He unties his apron and takes it off slowly, folds it neatly and emerges from the back room empty-handed. Without it he seems smaller, his shoulders hunching a little like the apron was the only thing holding him up. He does not leave empty-handed, as the proprietor of the café forces a little bundle into his hands as he walks out. Sherlock waits only a couple of minutes before he rises and follows, leaving the remainder of his tea behind.

When Anthea came into his room and put the file down on his desk, Sherlock balked immediately at the idea of using information that Mycroft had put together to find the guide-omega he had imprinted on. Had he chosen to search, and he hadn’t decided yet whether throwing himself on the mercy of a stranger would be an improvement over dying, he wanted to find John on his own merit. He was certain that he could have done it, even if it would have meant returning to the clinic and employing less than legal means of finding that information.

But time is proving short and Sherlock can feel himself slipping further. It is becoming more difficult to keep from falling into a zone and Anthea only just managed to pull him out, last time. Had he never gone to the clinic he would likely still be fine, but having had a taste of a compatible mate the process has sped up. He feels sluggish and fatigued constantly now. Even tailing John down the pavement without been seen proves to be a struggle, as deducing where John will stop and which way he will turn is nearly impossible, but he presses on, thirsting for data Mycroft doesn’t know, wanting to learn more about this guide-omega who is compatible with him.

John makes a sharp right, cutting down an alley, and Sherlock follows unthinkingly. He’s unprepared for the swift punch that sends him reeling against the wall. His head bounces off the brick and he contains the automatic grimace, steeling his hands against reaching for the wound, instead opting to open his eyes slowly and face his attacker like the world hasn’t got a little dark at the edges. 

“Who the hell are you?” John demands, standing just far enough away that Sherlock won’t be able to use his greater height to his advantage. His feet are planted and he looks prepared for a fight, hands loosely clenched at his sides. The bundle from the café has been abandoned in the bin. “Why are you following me?”

“You dislike working at the café,” Sherlock says blindly, the words tumbling out at the proximity to John. “Not because you feel it’s beneath you, but because every time you serve a customer you’re reminded of what you don’t have. Something about them bothers you… their success? Your lack of it? You’re stiffer around the younger clientele so it’s likely to do with academics. That’s the only job you could find, though, living where you are. A shelter of some sort, for omegas most likely, because you’ve had an argument with your guardian and the law forbids you from living alone…”

John stares at him for a beat of silence, the longest few seconds of Sherlock’s life during which he fully anticipates being punched again or worse, and then he laughs. It must surprises him as much as it does Sherlock because he stops just as quickly, blue eyes widening. “How did you know that? Just how long have you been following me?”

“Not long. Just today.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to know more about you,” Sherlock admits, wondering even as he speaks why he’s telling the truth. This close, he can smell John. It’s a fainter version of the raw taste, sparking a memory that makes him swallow an excess of saliva. He wants to taste John again.

Tilting his head slightly, John frowns. “How hard did you hit your head?” he asks at last, and when Sherlock just blinks at him he sighs and shuffles closer. Sherlock flinches when he lifts a hand, but John doesn’t pause. His touch is gentle against the back of Sherlock’s head, the fingers carefully searching out the swelling knot as John’s eyebrows come together in concentration. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.” John’s smile is quick. “I can hear the way your breathing picked up when I touched you. I’m not sorry I punched you because you should know better than to follow someone around, but I apologize in advance for the wicked headache you’re going to have over the next couple of days.”

There’s another reason why Sherlock’s breath is coming faster, but fortunately John isn’t close enough to be able to discern that. “I’m fine,” he bites out, torn between wanting to push John away and grab his hips to haul him closer. He fists his hands into his coat to keep them from moving at all until he can be certain which one they’re going to choose. 

“Right,” John says with a sceptical raise of an eyebrow. He starts to lean away and then stops suddenly. The hand in Sherlock’s hair drops to his shoulder and digs in tight. Soft, he says, “What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock answers, stomach tightening. Mycroft has messed up. He’s not sure how or why, but the certainty of that knowledge feels like another blow to his midsection. He stares at John’s face, mere inches away from his, and licks his lips. John’s eyes drop to follow the movement of his tongue, pupils dilating slightly, before he swears and wrenches away. He puts distance between them quickly, backing up.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”

Bloody Mycroft. “Yes.”

“Jesus Christ. Your crazy brother accosted me a week ago, but I didn’t actually think…” John trails off, apparently not knowing how to finish that sentence. He drops his gaze, looking Sherlock up and down slowly, never quite regaining that bit of eye contact. “Ever since he was in my flat, even after I left, I kept smelling this scent. It wasn’t often, just once in a while, and I couldn’t pinpoint what it was or where it was coming from. Now I know. It was _you_.”

The lazy, reluctant admiration Sherlock feels for his brother’s stroke of genius – Mycroft can, at times, be intelligent after all – is swiftly pushed aside. “You liked it,” he surmises, because no self-respecting man, omega or not, would react well to a strange scent on their clothing otherwise. Sherlock’s thrown thousands of pounds worth of clothing in the bin for less. 

The faint hint of pink in John’s face gives him away before he speaks. “That’s not the point. Why are you here?”

“I’m sure you can guess.” Sherlock straightens up at last, unable to contain a wince this time when his head throbs nastily. John wasn’t kidding about the headache. “Thanks to my interfering older brother who insisted I go to the clinic and try to find a match, no other guide will do. It has to be you.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but –”

“You don’t want a sentinel-alpha, I can tell. To be frank, I don’t particularly want a guide-omega. So I’m proposing that we work out a deal.”

John stills at that and he no longer looks like he’s going to run away. Now that Sherlock is looking at him closely, he can see similar signs of fatigue and stress in John. He’d guess that John has probably fallen into a swoon or two already, though they won’t have lasted long and he’s still playing himself, still convinced he can move past it without an alpha-sentinel. Sherlock has been down this road. He knows it won’t work. He just needs to convince John of that.

“I expect, based on what you’ve said, that Mycroft took the liberty of spreading my scent around on your personal effects while he was in the flat. You’ve been exposed to it long enough, particularly if you sought it out during a swoon, that you’ll have imprinted on me at least a little in return.” John’s face reddens even more, confirming Sherlock’s suspicion. He smiles grimly. “No one else will do for you, either.”

“I could find someone else,” John says defiantly.

“If you really tried to push past the initial revulsion and rejection, yes,” Sherlock concurs. “But you won’t. Because you’re afraid of trying to find a sentinel-alpha who won’t control you. Look no further, John.” He spreads his arms. “As long as we have occasional contact, it’s not necessary for anything else.”

“You mean sex.”

“Yes.”

John looks away, forehead creased. He nibbles on his bottom lip. “So all you want is to fuck every couple of days and that’s it?”

“I’ll need your number in case I fall into a zone,” Sherlock says, hoping that the sudden downward rush of blood at the way John says _fuck_ isn’t visible. “And you’ll have mine in the event you swoon. It will be a working partnership, allowing us to otherwise remain separate and live our own lives. I won’t even care if you choose to date.”

“Fine,” John says after another moment of thought. “I’m in.”


	8. Chapter 8

This is a bad idea. John knows that. He's not an idiot. He knows he should be running in the opposite direction, away from this sentinel-alpha who stares at him with hungry eyes.

But his feet won't move, mostly because the memories from just two nights ago keep washing over him. The swoon hit hot and hard and unexpectedly. One moment he'd been washing the dishes, chuckling with a couple of the lads, and the next he'd been conscious of everyone and everything, the echoes of a thousand emotions from anyone nearby slamming into him repeatedly until he collapsed on the floor under the strain. 

He doesn't fully remember what happened after that: he just knows that there was pain and it didn't stop, wouldn't stop no matter how much he begged not, until one of his friends, a girl he'd met at the shelter, laid her hands on his head and helped him to focus just on her. Her scent had been sweet and syrupy and it took forever for his mind to be able to focus. He knows, doesn't want to admit, that it hadn't _really_ worked until she pressed a jumper to his nose that smelled of someone else. 

The whole experience has left him with a distinct, jagged feeling of _wrong_ that even now he can't shift.

"What about heat?" he asks at last, realizing that he probably should have inquired about something so important before he agreed to this ridiculous plan. Already he can think of a half a dozen reasons why this is doomed to fail, why it won't work. Having sex will stabilize them both, but nothing will stop the downward spiral until they bond - and for a sentinel-alpha and an omega-guide that only happens during heat or rut. 

"You haven't gone into heat yet," Sherlock says confidently. "I haven't gone into a rut, either."

"It could happen," John says, and it's only after he's spoken that it occurs to him he's parroting Ella word for word. He grimaces, because in this case she's right.

"In the event it does, there are ways to work around it. Toys and suppressants. We don't have to mate." Sherlock's mouth tightens at the corners, his disdain evident at the idea, and John warms to him a little bit more. Somehow it's marginally easier knowing that Sherlock doesn't want this either. He's not sure what he would have done if he'd been confronted with a sentinel-alpha who wanted to force a heat to bond immediately, but he thinks it would've involved something illegal and possibly a need for a place to hide a body.

"Alright." It's crazy, and he's not sure in the long run it's going to work, but John will try anything. Despite his confident words in Ella's office, falling into that swoon was terrifying. He has no desire to spend the rest of his life trapped in that state, overwhelmed and lost, and anything that will put it off for even a little longer (short of an actual bond) is worth a shot. "Come on, then."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"I'm sure as hell not going back to yours. I'm guessing you live with your brother, yes? Well, I've seen about as much of him as I can take. I'm not sure I'll be able to keep myself from punching him in the nose if I do see him again." John stills feels sore at how easily his life was invaded. Even though he doesn't mind Sherlock's scent and it was enough to help pull him out of his swoon, that doesn't mean he's pleased to know someone deliberately doctored his personal property without his permission or knowledge. 

"Maybe we should go back to mine, then," Sherlock says thoughtfully. "Mycroft needs a good punch in the nose every once in a while."

John laughs, a little startled. "Not much sibling affection there, I take it."

"He's an arse," comes the flat response. "Always poking his nose in where it's not wanted."

"Spoken like a true younger sib," John mutters, more amused than he wants to let on. He turns to leave, expecting that Sherlock will follow, and is pleased when Sherlock does fall into step beside him. It doesn't escape his notice that Sherlock is weaving slightly, or that he winces when they emerge from the relatively shadowed alley into the bright sunlight. He doesn't feel guilty for defending himself, but he does find himself wishing that he'd pulled his punch a little more. If for no other reason than he's not sure how well Sherlock will be able to get it up if he has a concussion.

The walk back to the shelter doesn't take long. Because it's mid-day, it's mostly devoid of any other people and they make it into John's room without facing any awkward questions. There's no sign of his roommate, much to John's relief, and he shuts the door gently before turning to face Sherlock. He's halfway to asking if Sherlock wants him to look at his head before they start anything when Sherlock surges forward, pressing him back against the wood, and seals his mouth against John's throat.

"Christ," John gasps, hands rising automatically to tangle into the soft dark curls. Sherlock's hair feels like down feathers against his fingertips and he can imagine pushing his face into it. He dips his chin experimentally but gasps, forgetting all about his plan, when Sherlock licks his neck, dragging his tongue across his adam's apple and around to the other side.

"You taste exactly the way I remember," Sherlock says raggedly before pulling back with a sharply drawn in breath. John blinks at him for a couple of seconds before realizing that his grip had tightened and he was pulling.

"Oh god, sorry," he says. "Do you want to - here, sit down on the bed. I should look at your head before we do anything else."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm fine." But he does sit down, after he takes off his coat and scarf and sets them on top of the nearest desk. Underneath he's wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, and John's mouth fills with saliva that he has to swallow hard. Those jeans are tight. Very tight.

"Good," he says, taking the time to remove his own coat. He sets it down on top of Sherlock's and approaches, heart beating faster when Sherlock parts his thighs so that John can slide in between. He swallows again and sets his hands back on the crown of Sherlock's head, parting the hair so that he can see the source of the swelling. Sherlock is surprisingly quiet, his breath huffing out in warm puffs against the belly of John's jumper, and he suppresses a shiver.

"Will I live, Doctor?" Sherlock inquires at last.

"Yes." John lets go, too fast, the pang of being called a doctor - however jokingly - too sharp to ignore. In an instant Sherlock's hands lift and grasp hold of his hips to prevent him from stepping back. John pauses, hesitant, before easing forward a step instead. Sherlock's forehead makes impact with his midsection and they both sigh.

"No one tasted the way you do," Sherlock says quietly, the words spoken with an almost awed note. "I didn't want to go, you know, but Mycroft made me do it. He claimed I needed a guide-omega to calm me down. He's always said that. It's less about my health and more about finding a way to control me."

"Well then he didn't succeed very well," John points out. All he can see is a shock of dark hair and then smooth, creamy skin that looks as though it doesn't often see daylight. Considering the tenderness with which Sherlock handled his scarf, that's not unlikely. He can't resist setting his hands lightly on Sherlock's shoulders and then, when Sherlock doesn't move away, slipping a hand round the nape of his neck. The curls there twine neatly around his finger, black on gold.

"Not for lack of trying. He lives for manipulation."

"Yeah, I know someone like that. My guardian. He's all about the traditional life for an omega until it suits him." He lets his mouth tighten at the memory, the anger that still simmers over Sebastian encouraging him to run back to Mary in exchange for a chance at school. "He didn't want me to go to school. And without him, I can't afford it."

Sherlock breathes out against him, hot and damp, and then begins to push John's jumper up with his thumbs. John allows him to do it, not fighting the shiver that lights through him when lips impact with his bare flesh. This time the first touch of tongue is tentative, little kitten licks that make his whole body prickle, and a surge of want floods through him. He tightens his fingers against Sherlock's neck until Sherlock looks up at him, eyes bright and feverish already.

John leans down and kisses him.


	9. Chapter 9

Up until the second that John's lips make contact with his, Sherlock was able to keep himself under some semblance of control. He prides himself on that, because he knows that most other sentinel-alphas in his position would have lost it already. And he is achingly close: from the moment that John's door closed behind them, causing the world outside to cease to exist in terms of importance, a powerful itch of desire had been making itself known. He wants to press John down against the bed and climb on top of him, wants to peel John's clothing off and taste every inch of lovely tanned skin, wants to know what John's face looks like when he's overwrought and trembling with pleasure.

The last image makes him groan and John inhales sharply against him, mouth parting and tongue sneaking out to swipe across Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock eagerly allows him entrance, sucking on John's tongue and relishing in the way that it makes John squirm. He tastes like coffee and banana cake, but underneath is something far more pure and fresh that Sherlock craves. He sucks harder, fingers digging into John's hips, and listens to the soft whimper John lets out when they have to part in order to breathe. But, having always felt that breathing is overrated, Sherlock immediately switches his attention to John's throat. He latches on with his teeth, worrying at the skin and encouraging the blood to rush to the surface in a mark of ownership that causes something dark and predatory to flood through him.

John is breathing more harshly now, his fingers equally tight where he grips at Sherlock's shoulders. His scent is beginning to flood the room as he becomes more aroused and Sherlock wants to taste him. He stands up and turns, so smoothly that John squeaks in surprise when he's pushed down onto the bed. He bounces once, the bed cracking in protest, then props himself up and shoots Sherlock an amused look. "Jesus, when you're given the go ahead you don't hesitate."

"Why would I do something so foolish as to hesitate?" Sherlock says, looming over him. John is splayed out like a feast, jumper rumpled and hair askew. The mark on his neck is just barely visible above the collar of his shirt. Sherlock sets one knee on the mattress, considering where he wants to begin, and frowns when John holds a hand up to stop him.

"Hang on. Take your shirt off."

"Take yours off," Sherlock counters. His stomach tightens when John grins and obeys, gripping the hem of his jumper and the t-shirt he's wearing underneath and yanking them both over his head. He drops them carelessly over the side of the bed and cocks his head as though to say, well? And Sherlock responds automatically to the unspoken command, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. It takes him a moment to remember how to push them through the tiny seams. John's eyes never leave him, the blue depths reflecting pure hunger, as Sherlock pulls the shirt open and slide sit down his arms.

"Fuck you're... yeah," John says breathlessly, reaching for him with greedy hands. His hands find purchase on Sherlock's hips and he tugs. Sherlock falls into him gracelessly, only just preventing himself from crushing John entirely with a hand to the mattress beside John's head. John growls at the distance it causes between them and deliberately bucks up, rolling his hips against Sherlock's. They moan at the same time and Sherlock grinds down helplessly, sparks flashing in front of his eyes. He's never done this with another person, had never seen the point, but he's beginning to understand why this has fascinated so many of his classmates for so long. He likes having John under him, but he'd be just as content the other way around as long as John is there.

He growls softly, the itch beneath his skin thudding harder, and flattens his hand against John's chest. Right index finger brushes lightly across John's nipple and garners an appreciative murmur as John stretches his neck until he can press his face into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock eases his full weight down at that, shuddering when it brings their hips into full alignment. He can feel where John is hard against him, the only thing keeping them from full contact being a few layers of clothing. Part of him wants to pull off so that they can remove their jeans and underwear, but the rest of him recoils at the idea of separating from John for even a few seconds. This is what he's been yearning for, this is what he needs.

They fall into an easy rhythm, bucking and grinding while they exchange lazy kisses. Sherlock can’t decide what he wants to kiss. He loves the way that John tastes, but the way John moans when Sherlock is sucking on his collarbone is maddening. John’s fingers tangle in his hair again and tug, and it hurts but at the same it feels good and Sherlock growls his approval. He squirms against John, rutting harder against him, panting softly as large hands splay across his back and pull him down more firmly.

“I know this won’t be enough, but I need it,” John gasps, the blue of his eyes nearly swallowed by the black. His hair sticks to his face in sweaty clumps and his cheeks are pink with exertion. He’s squirming frantically, begging for more pressure. “Sherlock, _please_.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says mindlessly, and moans helplessly when John spreads his legs further and Sherlock can move just an inch to the side and slip one of his thighs in between John’s. “Yes John, oh, I want to see you.” 

John is nearly soundless when he comes, body arching against Sherlock’s frantically. Sherlock can feel the sudden spill of warmth and shudders hard, following John over the edge almost instantly. All of the tension rushes out of his body at once and he collapses silently, face pressed into the warm, dark curve where John’s shoulder meets his bruised throat. It smells of sweat, musky and sweet, and Sherlock lazily sticks out his tongue to trace a salty bead that’s sliding down John’s neck.

The hands sliding slowly up and down his back pause for just a moment before resuming. Then John says thoughtfully, “I’m pretty sure there was supposed to be more contact than that.”

Sherlock snorts, feeling more relaxed now than he has in months – hadn’t even realized how much tension had built up until now, when it’s finally gone. “I wouldn’t know,” he mutters, “seeing as how I’ve never done this before.”

“Never?” John says. “Me either.”

Sherlock stirs at that, pushing himself up so that he can look down at John. He’d not thought to ask John about previous partners, though it wouldn’t have surprised him to hear that John had experience. Even omegas rarely waited until they found a mate to have sex. “Never?”

“I’ve kissed a fair bit, and I got my hand up a girl’s skirt once, but for a while there my sister found it hilarious to cockblock me at every opportunity. Said it wasn’t fair I was getting more action than she was.” John smiles wryly, though his features tighten in a way that imply any mentions of his sister are not necessarily fond. “And then I didn’t really have the time to think about sex.”

Untouched, then, by any hands other than his own, and the low, fresh pooling of arousal in his belly tells Sherlock how much he likes that. He reaches for the zip on John’s jeans. John’s breath hitches when Sherlock’s fingers brush against the tender skin of his belly, and he goes very still as Sherlock tugs his jeans off his hips. He does help, though, lifting his bum and legs off the bed so they can be fully pulled off. It leaves him in just his boxers with a very obvious bulge, already wet at the front and growing damper with every second that Sherlock watches.

“Can I?” he says, lightly brushing the remaining fabric to make his question clear.

John chews his bottom lip and nods silently, eyes fluttering shut as Sherlock carefully pulls his boxers down and off. His cock is half-hard with renewed interest already. Sherlock takes a moment to observe, noting clinically the differences between them, until John opens his eyes and looks down at him. “Aren’t you going to touch me?” he asks, cheeks reddening.

“I’m going to do a lot more than that,” Sherlock says with a smirk. He likes the way John’s mouth drops open with a shocked sound when Sherlock takes his cock in hand. 

“Oh fuck,” John says, sounding strained.

“That is the idea,” Sherlock admits, stroking him gently with just the tips of his fingers. “Can I?”

This time John tilts his head, looking at Sherlock like there’s something he doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t respond until Sherlock raises an expectant eyebrow and gives him a firm squeeze. John jumps. “God yes,” he blurts out. “Yes, you can – I want you to, please, fuck me.”

The burn in Sherlock’s belly grows hotter and he licks his lips hungrily. He says, “Turn over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There won't be an update next week. Happy Holidays, guys!


	10. Chapter 10

The idea of presenting to an alpha has always felt demeaning. John's read the literature and seen the stupid little films, mostly because Sebastian loaded as much of that crap into his head as soon as he could, and he knows that it's built up as the defining day of an omega's life. That goes double when it's not just about mating, because for sentinels and guides it's also about bonding on a spiritual level and it transcends every possible experience to make that link. It's supposed to be _the_ moment, and the sort of dread he feels when he thinks about it is not normal.

So maybe it's because he and Sherlock aren't really bonding here, this is just sex to help them both out a little, but John doesn't feel the way he expected to when he rolls over and shifts his weight up onto his hands and knees. Sherlock's hands make contact with his ribs, fingers trailing hesitantly down to his hips, before the contact vanishes and he hears the sound of Sherlock unzipping his jeans and shifting around to pull them down and kick them off. He can't resist a glance over his shoulder.

Sherlock stark naked looks almost exotic, pale and lean, flat belly and sharp hips cutting down to a thick cock already plumping up with renewed interest. The knot is beginning to swell around the base and overall he's a striking figure against the plain walls of John's bedrooms. John swallows hard, eyes drawn to his erection, trying to imagine how it might feel inside of him. He's only ever touched himself inside a handful of times, and he suspects that a cock is going to feel completely different to three fingers no matter how much he's tried to work himself open. 

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asks, unconsciously fisting his cock. He drags his hand over the head slowly and licks his lips. 

"Yeah," John says hoarsely, an ache starting deep in his belly and echoing through his veins in thin tingles. He can feel slick beginning to collect on his thighs, trickling down towards his knees and the sheets underneath. He'll need to change them when this is all done. He squirms a little, clenching his buttocks and grimacing at the slip-slide, jumping when a hand lands on the bottom of his spine.

"You smell fantastic," Sherlock whispers, like it's a secret just between them, and his hands shake as they slide lower and bare his most intimate place to the world. Sherlock breathes in deep, dipping his head and licking his lips again, and says, "John, may I? I've been waiting - please, I _need_ to."

"Okay," John says, "Okay." and he's still not ready for that warm brush of a tongue over his entrance. Sherlock groans behind him and begins licking with abandon, giving John's thighs a thorough cleaning before he presses his tongue against the source of the slick for more. John bites down on his hand to muffle the moan that wants to come out and lets his front half drop down to the bed so that he can push back harder. 

"You taste amazing," Sherlock gasps out between frantic licks.

John wants to answer him but he can't, too busy leaving an imprint of his teeth in the back of his hand. His cock is fully hard again and he ruts against the air, pressing greedily back against Sherlock's face. The more Sherlock licks the more slick his body produces to ease the way, but as good as it feels it doesn't do anything to alleviate the growing ache inside of him. Sherlock's tongue isn't thick enough or long enough and John finally lets out a muffled, pleading sob.

Sherlock pulls back, breathing heavily, and when John glances back at him again his face is streaked with the shiny liquid. His eyes are wild, fully dilated and round, like an addict getting a hit after months of withdrawal. "I want to keep tasting you, but I have to fuck you," he says throatily, blinking heavily. 

"Yes, yes, please," John babbles, arching his back and thrusting his hips up. 

"Fuck," Sherlock says, pressing one finger into him. It sinks in easily, warm and wet, and John clenches down. 

"I'm ready. I'm good," he snaps. 

"If you're certain." Shifting higher on the bed, up onto his knees, Sherlock grips his cock and presses it against his hole. He pushes forward slowly and John squeezes his eyes shut, trembling at the initial breach. The pressure is intense and he's not sure whether he wants to move away or shove back to get it over with already. It's impossible to ignore, thick and full, and he finds himself digging his nails into his palms to deal with it.

When he's all the way in, though - god they're so close and John can feel his mind slowing down, the frenetic pulse of _other_ surrounding him finally being shielded by a sentinel's all consuming presence. Total opposites and that's why they work; Sherlock becomes too focused as his senses take control and go into overdrive and John is flayed open to be assaulted on every side by any presence near enough to do so. Like this they work and he can finally understand why so many people have been focused on trying to find him a compatible alpha-sentinel, and they haven't really done anything yet.

As though hearing the thought, Sherlock pulls back and then thrusts forward again. He sets a fast rhythm and John knows that this first time won't last long at all, they're both too desperate and on edge for that, ready to break after months of being alone. He pushes in hard and rotates his hips slowly, letting the curve of his knot catch against John's rim. John gasps at the sensation, uncertain as to whether or not he'll be able to take Sherlock's knot on the first attempt. But damn it he wants to try.

He lets his head sink down and braces himself with an arm, reaching with his free hand until he can wrap his fingers around his straining cock. Sherlock's hands come to rest on his hips with a punishing grip that will no doubt leave bruises come morning. The room is filled with the sounds of their gasps and grunts and the slick slap of skin against skin, and even John can tell that the combined scent of their musk and sweat is strong - he thinks it must be driving Sherlock mad because even his head is spinning and he lacks a sentinel's enhanced senses.

It only takes a couple of pumps around John's dripping erection before Sherlock starts leaning further over him, changing the angle, and John shouts as pleasure slithers down his spine and then he's coming all over the sheets almost before he even realizes what's going on. Sherlock growls, a feral sound, and thrusts in particularly hard. A thin whine escapes John before he can bite it back and he comes for a third time, dry this time, shuddering all over as the knot is forced inside of him. A hot wet sensation rushes through him.

Sherlock stays hunched over him for several seconds before he straightens, carefully bringing John up with him, and then shifts them both to lay down on their sides. They're breathing heavily and it takes at least a couple of minutes before John's frantic heartbeat starts to slow back down. He feels exhausted now, lightheaded, but then it's the first time in his life that he's come three times so quickly. He closes his eyes and sighs. They'll be locked together for about twenty to thirty minutes, maybe longer considering it's Sherlock's first knot.

"My mind is clear now," Sherlock says after about five minutes have gone by. He sounds tired and disgusted. "I'd almost forgotten what it feels like, and I have to wonder how long I had been sliding downhill without even being aware of it."

John knows exactly how that feels because he's been thinking the same thing. It's like never having glasses and then suddenly being given the perfect prescription: like the world has burst into stunning clarity. And he and Sherlock haven't even completed the mating or the bond, haven't left the claiming mark for the ritual exchange of blood that would _allow_ them to bond. He shoves away the niggling question of how it might feel if he and Sherlock had gone the final step.

This is enough.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock isn't lying. Lying there in bed beside John as their breathing slows back down to a more acceptable rate, he casts his senses wide. He can hear the conversation of the students in the room out front, the soft pattering of feet as someone decides to leave the building, the rock music coming from the room three doors down. His eyes can pick out the individual hairs on the back of John's neck, each thin, fine blond strand moving back and forth from the force of expelled air as Sherlock breathes in and out. Each inhalation brings in not just the combination of their scents, but also that of the other boy who shares John's room and the other people who have been in and out over the past several months.

More than that, it's what he _can't_ sense that truly captures his attention: the tickling sensation of falling, always lingering along the edges of his mind and waiting to drag him down, is conspicuously absent. The longer he leaves his senses open the more he braces for it, but it doesn't happen. The zone never comes. 

"You're awfully tense," John complains, the words a little slurred. He tips his head back to peer at Sherlock through half-open eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," says Sherlock, and for once it's the truth. A thrill of excitement shoots through him. He can't wait to get back to his bedroom so that he can begin re-examining the latest cases he's developed an interest in, not to mention the information he's gathered on Moriarty over the years. Just by glancing around this room his mind automatically strings together deductions that would've been lost to him before; it will be fascinating to see what he is capable of when it comes to a true puzzle.

Yet at the same time he finds himself reluctant to leave the bed. It's not a particularly comfortable bed. It's old, for one thing, and a little on the small side for two nearly fully grown boys even knotted together as they are. Either John will require a new bed or the next time this happens it will be in Sherlock's room while Mycroft is out. Satisfaction sparks through him at that, the thought of next time. He can picture it easily. John on his bed, splayed out on his back against sheets the same colour as his eyes, eyes shut in ecstasy. Or perhaps at some point it would be better if John were to climb on top of him. His thighs look strong enough to support the up-and-down movement of his body that sort of position would require.

Just contemplating it is enough to make his cock twitch with renewed interest and a fresh splatter of come makes John squirm. "Hey!" he complains, though the way his cheeks flush suggest he's not as upset as he's trying to sound.

"You are very arousing," Sherlock says thoughtfully. He's never met anyone who affects him this way. The alpha inside of him feels calm, content, in a way that Sherlock hadn't known was possible. He wants to keep John like this, pinned down with an arm across his waist, knotted securely so that he can't go anywhere without Sherlock knowing: it speaks to something primal within him that wants to bite down on the back of John's neck and begin the final process.

John blinks and drags his tongue across his lower lip. "Um. Thanks?"

Sherlock tracks the movement of his tongue when he does it again and finds himself swooping down to follow, to taste for himself. John's mouth opens easily for him with a little sigh, letting him explore as he pleases. The taste is enjoyable even though intellectually Sherlock is aware that it shouldn't be, and he licks greedily until John is panting and squirming against him. He's not hard, but he does make a very satisfactory whining sound when Sherlock pinches one of his nipples experimentally. His hips rock back against Sherlock unconsciously and he willingly spreads his leg when Sherlock shifts a knee between them.

"I can't go again," he says raggedly, "that's my limit."

"Hmm," Sherlock says, non-committal, and he has to make a conscious effort to hold back the possessive words that want to come out. This body belongs to him now and he will be the one to decide whether or not John can go again. Omegas, particularly those in their youth, are known for having excellent refractory periods. John is not only young, he's just been knotted for the first time and the room is filled with the unique mixture of their pheromones. Almost lazily, he reaches around and palms John's cock.

"You don't listen very well," John observes, turning his head down to watch. He makes no effort to get away from the touch, probably believing that Sherlock won't be able to coax a reaction from him no matter how hard he tries. Sherlock intends to prove him wrong.

"I don't need to. I can deduce everything I need to know," says Sherlock, nuzzling his cheek against the back of John's neck. It's not an action he'll ever admit to later, but right now it feels right. "For example, I know that you make friends easily. You're approachable, people enjoy talking to you, and so they open up to you. But you, on the other hand, tend to keep a part of yourself back. Cautious, unwilling to share certain truths. You let them make assumptions because you enjoy proving them wrong later."

John's breath catches. He keeps his head down. "What makes you say that?"

"I've been observing you at the café. Most of the regulars try to find a moment to chat with you before they leave, but your body language consistently remains closed off. You never initiate the conversation, though you don't turn anyone away. You're polite to the new customers who come in, the ones you don't recognize, but only to a certain point and anyone who tries to push further is quickly rebuked. I suspect it would take several visits before you warm up."

“You just know everything, don’t you,” John mutters, though there’s no real heat to the way he says it. His hips shift, not quite pushing into Sherlock’s grip, more restless. “Though you were wrong about one thing.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Back in the alley, you said I took the job at the café because it was the only one I could find. It wasn’t. I had another offer, but it was working as an aide with children.” His voice goes real quiet and the movement of Sherlock’s hand stills briefly. 

He can understand why John would rebel against an offer to do one of the more traditional omega jobs, but the spite is… surprising. “You don’t like children?”

“They’re okay. Sometimes. What about you? Do you like kids?”

“I’ve never found it necessary to be around them,” says Sherlock, which is the truth. Even when he was younger he’d never been fond of his classmates; most of them were not intelligent enough to breathe same air as him, much less suitable as friends, as far as his parents had been concerned. And what he thinks John’s really asking, as in having and raising children, is something he’s never bothered to contemplate. “The work I want to do does not lend itself to children.”

“What kind of work do you want to do?”

"I'm a consulting detective." Or at least, he will be. When he's old enough that people will take him seriously, won't laugh in his face the way they had when he'd tried to explain about Carl Powers. The familiar flush of humiliation steals over him and he stops, letting go of John's prick, sliding his hand up to rest on his belly instead. "I follow cases in the media, the ones that the police are having difficulty solving, and when I've figured it out I write to the lead detective and explain to them how it was done."

"That's really interesting, and I can see how you'd be good at it," says John. He pauses for a moment before offering, "I want to be a doctor. Or I did."

"You still do."

"Yeah, only my guardian didn't agree." He tries to laugh but it falls short, comes out bitter and half-hearted. "And I can't afford it now."

I could, Sherlock doesn't say, the skin on the back of his neck prickling. John's not his mate, it's not his responsibility to provide for him and it never will be. He goes quiet, chilled, and over the course of about a minute the swelling of his knot goes down enough to let him slip free. He rolls over immediately, springing to his feet as John sits up. John looks utterly debauched, belly smeared with come and face flushed, hair matted with sweat and bruises pressed deep into his hips and thighs.

Sherlock looks away and dresses quickly, not bothering to try and clean himself first. "I'll text you my address," he says. "For next time."

John's face does something complicated that Sherlock doesn't know how to interpret. He's quiet as Sherlock puts his coat on, not even speaking until Sherlock's out the door, and then it's only Sherlock's improved senses that allow him to hear the words John utters so quietly: "Yeah. Next time."


	12. Chapter 12

The world seems different when John wakes up the next morning, and he spends an extra couple of minutes just laying in bed instead of getting up immediately the way he usually does. Even though he changed the sheets after Sherlock left and did his best to air out the room a little for the sake of his roommate, he can still smell Sherlock's scent all over his bed. Their scent. Like it's become a part of the mattress itself. It's a bit distressing, but at the same time he feels soothed by the tangible memory of what they did together. Last night he dreamt about Sherlock lying on top of him and that's easily the best night's sleep he's had since his parents died.

Eventually Mike stirs and rolls over, and his voice still sounds slurred with sleep when he says, "I can hear you mooning from over here, John. Maybe it's time you thought about moving out and going to live with your lover."

"Oh, piss off," John says, relieved that the room is still dark enough to be able to hide the reddening of his cheeks. 

Mike chuckles. He's an omega, like John, and he obviously doesn't live at home anymore but John's not sure why. Mike hadn't offered his story and John knows better than to ask. All that really matters is that Mike's friendly enough and has an amazing collection of medical books that he shares freely. John rolls over onto his side and looks across at his friend, finding that Mike has done the same. They grin at each other and John gets the sense that his smile is more than just a bit goofy, but he can't make himself stop. He feels lighter and easier now, shielded from the intensity of life, even though nothing much has changed.

"You gonna mate now?" Mike asks finally.

"No."

"Really."

"Yes, really." He doesn't blame Mike for being a little sceptical. Most alphas, particularly sentinel-alphas, are quick to mate and bond when they find a compatible omega or guide-omega. Sherlock seems to be the exception, as he hadn't nosed around John's neck even once. John knows that for a fact; from the moment they'd fallen into bed together he'd been waiting for the tell-tale nip that would mean he'd have to kick Sherlock out but it hadn't come.

"Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just..." Mike sits up and scratches his belly, shrugs at John. He's quiet for a moment before he says, "I'm not a guide like you, John, so maybe I don't get it. But if I found an alpha that wanted me, that was willing to take me away from this place, I wouldn't be too quick to say no."

John looks away. "Well, that's you," he says, because he can't help remembering the little curl of disdain to Sherlock's lip when he talked about mating. Sherlock's not interested, that much is evident. So it's just as well that John isn't, either, or there would be some difficulty down the road. "Not me. I'd rather take my chances on trying to make my own way in the world, even if I can't get into the army."

Mike just nods and throws his covers aside, sliding off the bed and standing up to stretch. He puts his whole body into it, going up onto the tips of his toes before he relaxes with a deep sigh. "I'm off to shower, I think. If you want to continue rolling around in the stench of your mate - oh, excuse me, fuck buddy, by all means continue." He laughs and ducks the pillow that John chucks in his direction, winking and disappearing out the door before John can seize something else to aim in his direction.

The temptation to do exactly that is pretty much gone now, so John doesn't have any difficulty getting up. Because Mike's been pretty tactful about not complaining until now, he does open a window to let more fresh air in before he gets dressed. He hasn't got a shift at the cafe today, which means he'll be spending most of his day at the library. He might not be able to attend university without money or backing, but he's discovering that there are ways around that if you know where to look. Self-study won't really get him anywhere, but at least it leaves him feeling like he's actually doing something proactive as opposed to just getting stuck in an endless loop. 

Which reminds him, as he finishes buckling his belt he grabs his phone and checks his messages. With Sherlock's impromptu visit yesterday he'd pretty much forgotten everything else - he won't admit it, but John spent the rest of the day doing his level best to not just drift around in a drunken scent phase - and he's not surprised to see that there's one from Molly. He sends her a quick text back and heads out of the room.

Immediately he wants to turn back around.

“John, wait,” Mary says, and it’s not what she says but the way she says it that stops him: that little hitch in her breath that has never failed to make his knees go weak. He hesitates and that gives her the chance she needs to get close, her fingers finding and clutching at the sleeve of his shirt so that he can’t get away. “Please, I didn’t know who else I was supposed to turn to.”

“Your friends, family, really anyone but me would’ve done,” John says. His shoulders are stiff with a tension he can’t disperse. Every time he thinks about Mary he can’t help remembering that conversation where it all fell apart. He hasn’t seen her since then, hasn’t wanted to, and looking at her now only brings it all rushing back.

“No one else listens to me the way you do.”

“Too bad that didn’t go both ways.”

Her face crumbles. “John.”

In spite of his anger, a little sliver of guilt works its way through and he sighs. “You’re not supposed to be here, Mary. I made it clear that I didn’t want to see you again. That’s one of the reasons why I moved out of the flat and didn’t tell anyone where I was going.” Not even Harry, and the fact that his sister hasn’t made any attempt at all to even _try_ to contact him still hurts.

“I know. You’re still mad at me. I wouldn’t have come, but I… I really didn’t know what else to do. Just hear me out, okay? And if you don’t want me to be here, I’ll go.” Sensing that he’s weakening, she adds, “I’ll buy you breakfast. Anything you want.”

John sighs. He knows better than to hope that saying no will make her leave. Mary’s stubborn and she’ll keep showing up, dogging him until he agrees. “Fine. But you have to make it fast. I’m meeting someone at noon.”

“Meeting –” She stops, too fast, her eyes widening when she turns her head and catches a hint of the foreign scent that’s clinging to his skin. gives him more pleasure than it probably should to watch the way she struggles to remain composed, something she fails at because he can clearly see the flicker of jealousy on her face.

“That’s right,” he says, no need to mention that it’s not Sherlock he’s meeting. He gently pulls out of her grip and leads her back outside. It puts them on equal ground and he feels better. Her presence inside of what has quickly become his safe place was jarring. 

Mary keeps quiet as they walk down to the nearest Starbucks. John places an order for a tea and a muffin and steps aside to let her pay. As they sit down together, Mary clears her throat. “I didn’t realize you’d met a sentinel-alpha.”

“It’s none of your business. Now say whatever it is you wanted to say.”

“Dad – Sebastian – he’s missing.”

Not what John is expecting to hear, and he pauses in the midst of breaking off a piece of his muffin. “Missing?”

“We were supposed to meet for supper two nights ago but he didn’t show up and I haven’t seen him since. Harry hasn’t been around, either. I tried calling both of them, but…” She shrugs, chewing on her lower lip. “I even went to the flat, but there was no sign of them. The place looks deserted, John. I don’t think anyone has been there for a while.”

John puts the piece of muffin in his mouth. It’s dry and sticks when he tries to swallow. Mary lives with her mother, but Moran usually makes it a point to see her frequently. Two nights doesn’t sound like much, but – “Mary, this is something you should go to the police with. I moved out. I haven’t talked to Harry in ages. I’m not going to be much help.”

“I can’t,” she says. “I can’t involve the police, John.”

“Why not?”

Mary bites her lip harder, until blood wells up, and then she licks it off with a quick swipe of her tongue and whispers miserably, “Because if they find him the government’s going to kill him.”


	13. Chapter 13

Owing to a small diplomatic issue with Russia that requires immediate interference, Sherlock doesn't see Anthea or Mycroft until two days after his initial encounter with John. He's bent over an experiment concerning a severed hand that he borrowed from the local morgue when he hears the sound of the door downstairs opening and closing. Less than a minute later, his door opens with little warning and Anthea bounds straight in. She's got that look in her eyes that means neither she nor Mycroft have slept for a while; a kind of nervous, frenetic energy that strongly suggests she's going to fall asleep standing up if she dares to stop and stand still for more than a minute. Perhaps that's why she gets so pissed when she sees Sherlock sitting at his desk and she freezes.

Then, "What the hell? Sherlock, where is your mate?"

"I haven't got one," Sherlock says idly, poking at a swollen and disfigured finger. It's later than he thought and now that his concentration has been broken he can feel exhaustion weighing at him, trying to coax him into putting his head down on the desk for just a few seconds. Not for the first time, he shoves the feeling aside and refocuses on the hand. This experiment is time sensitive and can't be replicated without a second hand, and it was difficult enough to borrow the first without being caught.

"What do you mean? You went to see John, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"And?" Anthea demands when he offers no further details without prompting. She storms over to him and grabs the metal tray, pulling it out from under the microscope. Sherlock's head jerks up and he opens his mouth to protest; she stops him cold with a finger pressed to his lips and a burning gaze. "I've just come back from the middle of nowhere after having spent three solid days listening to alpha idiots argue back and forth about the stupidest shit in the world," she says bitingly. "I'm pretty sure my arse is bruised from how many times it’s been pinched and I haven't yet regained all of the feeling in my toes. I haven't eaten in god knows how long, never mind sleeping. I'm _not in the mood_ , Sherlock Holmes."

"We decided to meet every few days instead of entering into a bond," Sherlock blurts out, because if the years have taught him anything it's that messing around with his sister-in-law when she's in temper is a good way to lose valuable, irreplaceable things. Occasionally body parts.

Anthea stares at him, her eyebrows slowly drawing together into a deep furrow as she absorbs this. "So you're... fuck buddies."

"Crude, but essentially yes."

"Oh my god," Anthea moans, shaking her head so hard several tendrils of dark curls fall out of her bun. "Just when I thought I would no longer have to worry about you, you go and do something like this."

"Hey!" Sherlock draws himself up, offended. "It's a perfectly acceptable plan. I don't want a guide-omega hanging around me all the time. John doesn't want a sentinel-alpha telling him what to do. As long as we are in intimate contact on a regular basis, that should be enough to keep me from falling into a zone." Before she can protest, he adds smugly, "And I have John's mobile number in the event I do fall into a zone. All it takes is one call and he'll be right over to pull me out."

Judging from the expression on her face, Anthea is not impressed. "What are you going to do about heats? Or rut? Just because you haven't -"

"If that happens, we'll deal with it," he says shortly, hoping that she'll be willing to drop the subject altogether. He doesn't like contemplating how easily his body could get away from him. It's unpleasant, the thought of being consumed by sexual desire. Even if it would be for someone like John. He knows it's inevitable: most alphas and omegas experience rut and heat at some time or another, even if it's only a pseudo-rut or -heat because their partner has fallen prey. But that doesn't mean Sherlock has to sit here and actively think about it. 

"You can't do anything the easy way, can you?" she mutters. "Sherlock, you do know - eventually this isn't going to be enough. You'll begin to crave more. Both of you will. It’s inevitable. You think no one's ever tried this before? There have been studies -"

"I don't want to hear it." Even though he knows Anthea dislikes being interrupted, much less twice during one conversation, Sherlock can't help it. The words are out before he can bite them back and much to his amazement Anthea actually falls silent. She stares at him for several seconds and then her face does something complex that he still struggles to understand, smoothing out at the corners as the lines around her eyes soften. He knows what she's about to do and instinct demands he remain within reach of her when she stretches a hand out and ruffles the hair on his head, her fingers combing back a wayward curl over his right ear.

"It's alright to be scared," she says quietly, confidentially. "Don’t ever tell him I said this, but Mycroft was too."

"I doubt that."

"No, it's true. You think your big brother just came into this like he knew what he was doing? God, Sherlock, that's the whole point. You just have to muddle through as best you can. I suppose that's why I'm going to let it go and let you learn your own mistakes."

Sherlock's eyes widen.

Anthea laughs a little, sadly, and lets her hand slide down to cup his cheek. She leans in and kisses him on the forehead. "Go to bed, darling," she says, soft in a way that makes him ache. "You need sleep more than anything. No matter how good you feel not even you can stay up until all hours, and I'm telling you right now that I won't be pleased to find out if you’ve spent the night sleeping on top of a stolen hand tomorrow morning."

"Borrowed," Sherlock corrects.

"Right," she says, rolling her eyes. "Good night."

"Good night."

She leaves the room and turns the light off pointedly on her way out. Sherlock looks down at his experiment, already ruined just from his lack of focus during their brief conversation, and sighs. He leaves the tray to be disposed of by the maid and gets up. He knows from experience that Anthea will be back to check on him in twenty to twenty-five minutes, and she won’t be pleased if he’s still awake. And while there was a time when he lived to antagonize her, all that had changed after the deaths of their parents – when Anthea became the only real thing besides a stupid law holding the two brothers together.

He undresses and slips under the covers, falls asleep long before Anthea comes back. It’s the persistent sound of his mobile phone ringing that eventually wakes him up. He fumbles around for it before remembering that it’s still stuck in the pocket of his jeans. He flaps a disinterested hand – few people worth his time ever bother to contact him, and those that do have a particular ringtone – and shuts his eyes again. But it keeps ringing, and after the fourth time Sherlock reluctantly drags himself out of bed.

“What?” he barks into the phone.

“Sherlock?”

His mind places the voice instantly, the tension and residual sleepiness fading so quickly he hardly notices as he rubs his eyes. “John? Do you need me already? I’d estimated that we would have a period of at least four to five days, if not a week, before we needed to meet again.“ Or at least, that’s what he was hoping for. If John has a need for them to be intimate already, it does not bode well for the future.

“No,” John says, laughing a little. “Did I wake you?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. I just… I remembered what you said. About being a consulting detective and how you help the police.”

Curiosity piqued, Sherlock sinks down onto the edge of his bed. “Why?”

“I might have a case for you. If you’re not busy.”

“I’m not.” In fact, last night he’d emailed Detective Inspector Lestrade about a series of fires that have been set on the lower east side of London. The experiment with the hand had been an attempt to starve off boredom for a few more hours. The prospect of a case is far more tantalizing. “I can meet you this morning if you like.”

“Great,” says John. He rattles off the address and Sherlock frowns as they hang up, recognizing the address as the flat where John used to live with his guardian and sister. He’s not sure why John wants to meet him there, but anything is more interesting than being suckered into working for cases for Mycroft.


	14. Chapter 14

John doesn’t actually want to call in Sherlock, doesn’t even think about it until he and Mary have done a thorough inspection of the flat. Unfortunately, it turns out that Mary was all too correct when she said that it looked as though no one had been in the flat for weeks. There’s a nice level of dust coating everything and some of the food in the refrigerator has passed its date but hasn’t been chucked out. Harry’s bed is as messy as ever, but Moran’s is unmade and that’s practically unheard of.

A quick call to Harry’s school proves she hasn’t shown up in three days, and John can’t call Moran’s work because he doesn’t know the number but he suspects it wouldn’t matter anyway. It’s like Moran decided in the middle of the night that he didn’t care for London anymore and took off with Harry, but that doesn’t make any sense. One of the few things John and Harry had fought for after their parents died was staying in London, and Moran had caved without too much argument. Why should that change now?

So where, then, have they gone? Repeat calls to Harry’s mobile phone yield nothing, and none of her friends seem to know where she’s gone or even when they last spoke to her. John finally drops down onto the sofa, exhausted even though he hasn’t done much but make useless calls, and stares helplessly at Mary. He starts to wonder if they should be calling the police, but Moran’s always made his opinion of Scotland Yard abundantly clear. Hatred is not a strong enough description. Would he be angry? But if not the police, then what do they do?

"I don't know," says Mary miserably, and John starts, realizing that without realizing he must've been speaking out loud. He glances over at her. She's sitting in her father's favourite chair and she looks absolutely lost. It doesn't help that the chair dwarfs her, making her look like a child. She catches his eyes and adds a little spitefully, "That's why I came to you in the first place. Because I didn't know what else I was supposed to do and you're pretty much the only person beside me who would actually care they're gone."

John carefully does not argue that. He's heard enough about the marriage between Mary's father and mother to know that it's a dangerous topic to breach. "Have you thought about calling the police?" he ventures, even though he already knows what she's going to say.

"No!" 

"Mary -"

" _No_ , John. Dad hates the police. You know that. He'd be furious if the police were the ones to find him."

"At least he'd be alive to be angry," John points out. It takes effort not to get angry, because this isn't just about Moran. It's about Harry too. And while she might've turned into a complete stranger over the past few months, she's still his big sister and she's the only family that he has left now. 

"Call if you want, but I won't be a part of it." Mary folds her arm stubbornly. "Just let me know, because I'll get up and walk out right now."

"No, don't," he says with a sigh, torn between frustration and annoyance. He glances back down at his phone, absently thumbing through the contact list like it's going to provide some answers. And then - it does. His eyes light on Sherlock's name and he sucks in a breath as the memory of their conversation in bed rolls over him again. Admittedly he hadn't been paying the strictest amount of attention at the time, but he still remembers Sherlock talking about how he helps the police solve cases from a distance. He looks back up at Mary and grins. 

"I might have someone we can call."

\--

Sherlock meets them at the flat the next morning, looking like he's only just rolled out of bed. John's fingers itch with the urge to smooth those wayward curls back down and he stuffs his hands into his pockets just in case they decide to make a grab for Sherlock's head of their own accord. Mary, standing next to him, takes a deep breath and goes very still when she catches a whiff of Sherlock's scent. If Sherlock notices - and who is John trying to kid, of course he does - he doesn't pay her any attention. Instead he comes right up to John and smiles, inordinately pleased.

"You have a case?" he asks, a hint of childish excitement lighting up his eyes.

"Yeah, I think so. My sister and her guardian, they've gone missing," says John. He no longer feels it's appropriate to refer to Moran as his guardian, and a thrill of satisfaction goes through him when Sherlock just nods and starts examining the door. After a couple of minutes of thoughtful noises and gentle scratching at the paint, Sherlock pushes the door open and goes inside. John starts to follow automatically, only to be brought up short when Mary grabs his arm.

"You asked _him_?" she hisses. "The alpha who fucked you?"

John bristles at the implication, like he didn't have a say in what happened or just went along for the ride. He might've been on the bottom, but the scratches on Sherlock's back are a good indicator that he was a more than active participant. "Sherlock works with the police sometimes, but he's not a direct part of the force. It's the next best thing to hiring a private investigator or, you know, _actually calling the fucking police_. Do you want to find your father or not?" He wrenches his arm free of her grip pointedly. "Besides, what's going on between me and Sherlock is none of your business."

Mary’s face twists, like he’s actually hurt her feelings somehow, and she says, "Well, I don't agree."

"You lost any say you might have had in that when you decided to run off and destroy my future," John snaps, perhaps louder than he should've, but being in such close quarters with Mary is fast wearing on him. "I don't know why you want to discuss it now, and frankly I'm not going to. I want to focus on finding my missing sister."

Whatever else Mary is going to say is lost when he pushes into the flat. Sherlock is standing in the kitchen and his eyes flick briefly up to meet John’s. In that split second glance, John ascertains that Sherlock heard every word. It doesn’t bother him the way he thinks it should. He stops within easy reach and observes as Sherlock lowers his head again, seemingly fascinated by a streak of mud on the floor. Mary comes in but stays by the door, hovering just close enough to make her presence known. John is tempted to grab Sherlock by the shoulders and give him the hottest, filthiest kiss he can. 

Sherlock’s fingers pause and then he straightens, an indefinable look on his face. “No one has been here for approximately five days, possibly up to seven.”

“We already knew that,” Mary snaps.

“Did you know that at least one bullet was fired in the flat?” Sherlock counters. He smirks when she goes quiet. “I didn’t think so. There is gun powder on the floor and, more tellingly, a bullet hole in your sofa.” He gestures, pointing out the neat round hole slanting down towards the floor. 

The colour drains from Mary’s face so quickly that John reacts without thinking, crossing the room in a couple of steps and guiding her over to the nearest chair. Her knees fold and she collapses more than she sits, still staring at the bullet hole. John glances at Sherlock and says, “I’m sure it’s fine. There’s no blood or anything like that, so no one would have been injured.”

“They could have –”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” John repeats, cutting Sherlock off and sending him a hard look. He’s pretty sure he knows how that sentence would’ve been finished, an the last thing he needs is Mary freaking out after she hears a detailed explanation of how blood and/or other gore could’ve been cleared away. Sherlock blinks back at him, but thankfully takes the hint.

“I’ll need to examine the rest of the flat,” he says, sliding his coat off. “Including your old bedroom.”

John’s mouth twitches into a smile against his will. “My old room, huh.”

“Of course.”

Of course. John shakes his head. He shouldn’t feel this fond already, should he? “Down the hall to the right. Take all the time you need.”


	15. Chapter 15

It’s not entirely necessary to examine John’s room. The most compelling evidence is more likely to be found in either Harry’s or Moran’s rooms. Sherlock knows that, but he can’t resist going into John’s old bedroom first. He glances around quickly, taking in the moderately sized quarters. The walls are painted a demure pale blue and the room is overall fairly neat, but. There are signs of a quick departure, and Sherlock can tell that someone who was unfamiliar with the way that John kept his things tried to straighten up after he left. 

“Haven’t been in here for a while,” John says behind him, and Sherlock casts a glance over his shoulder. There’s a conflict in the way John looks around the room, wistfulness in his face but tension in his body. Being here both soothes and bothers him at the same time. Not exactly surprising, considering how he left, and yet Sherlock finds himself wanting to do something like put his hand on the back of John’s neck to comfort him.

“Not much here. I’ll go look at Harry’s room,” Sherlock says, fisting his hands to keep from doing just that. He brushes past John, close enough that their shoulders make fleeting contact, and he’s both surprised and annoyed at the depth of _wanting_ that rolls over him. He pauses for a moment in the hall and shakes his head until his mind feels a little more clear. He’s here to focus on a potentially interesting case, not involve himself with John. Sex can wait.

Harry’s room is just across the hall from her brother’s, and it’s noticeably larger – and messier. Clothing is strewn across the floor, but considering that a well-worn path has been kicked through it’s not a new development. Sherlock makes a face at the barrage of smells that assault his senses; bitter and sharp and pungent, each one cloying and heavy. While his own room is not nearly as neat as it could be, it’s nothing like this mess. He doesn’t understand how anyone could concentrate when the smell alone is enough to make his head reel.

He cups a protective hand over his mouth and nose and shuts his eyes, trying to pull his senses back. Only when his eyes stop tearing up does he step forward, looking for signs of a struggle or anything that may explain why Harry isn’t here. Her desk is covered with a mountain of schoolwork and he pauses, curious. He flips through the top few books, noting that Harry is not a spectacular student. Her grades are mediocre and each piece of work is liberally sprinkled with comments about how she needs to try harder. Not a favourite with the professors then, either.

It’s not really a surprise to discover that Harry attends an alpha school, considering what drove John away from the flat in the first place. Old-school tradition at its finest, and a fate that Sherlock only narrowly managed to escape. He can’t imagine being trapped in the same four walls constantly and not going mad. Fortunately, Mycroft had long ago decided that his little brother would not be suited to an alpha school and he had agreed to send Sherlock to a regular school instead. That was bad enough.

“The Huxtable Academy,” he mutters, recognizing the name as one of the more prestigious and expensive schools that cater exclusively to alphas. No sentinel-alphas allowed. Wouldn’t want to destroy the alpha illusion of being head of the pack with the realization that they weren’t and never would be. He smirks and shuts the book, sparing a look at the rest of the room.

There’s so much he can deduce about Harry just from that look. She’s older than John and she’s attracted to girls, specifically betas and not omegas the way her school will say she’s supposed to be. She doesn’t miss her parents the way that John does, and in fact she likes having Moran around: evident by the lack of photos of the older people he’d seen in John’s room and the handful of photos of Sebastian Moran he recognizes from John’s file. She’s stubborn and forgetful and drinks too much, but none of that tells him _why_.

“Have you found anything?”

Sherlock quells the automatic response to turn around and look at Mary. He doesn’t know her, only knows that she’s Moran’s daughter, but the tension behind her and John would be blatantly obvious even if he hadn’t heard the conversation out in the hall. The fact that she’s here, hanging around John, rankles under his skin. The alpha in him demands that he stake his claim on his omega so thoroughly she’ll understand that John is completely off limits; the sentinel demands that he bond with his guide immediately to let the whole world, not just Mary, know.

He controls both urges. Barely.

“Not yet,” he says shortly, noting that Harry’s purse and phone are both missing. So either she had time to grab them, or the kidnapper had wanted them for some reason. He turns then and looks at her. “I’ll need to look at Moran’s room to see the whole picture.”

Mary’s shoulders go stiff. “I’m not sure I like the idea of a stranger going through my father’s things.”

“Do you want me to help find them or not?” Sherlock steps towards the door now, eager to be out of Harry’s room though he tries not to show it. His head is aching, subtle pressure tightening across his forehead, and even though he’s trying to repress his senses every breath brings in a bewildering magnitude of scents. Each one is so _strong_ and fighting for acknowledgement, melding together into an overwhelming chaos.

Mary says something but her words are far off, muddled and distant, like he’s listening to her over a bad connection. The pain swells and his vision goes dark, knees buckling, and he hears Mary start shouting something unintelligible. There’s a confusing few seconds of pounding sensation that makes Sherlock want to go mad to escape from it all, and then hands grab his shoulders. Familiar hands, gentle but determined, and he’s being drawn up against a body that he _knows_ with every base instinct he has.

His head falls forward blindly onto John’s shoulder and John grabs his chin, pulls him closer and tucks Sherlock’s nose into the curve of his neck where it’s warm and musky. He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s back, hands flat against his shoulder blades, and slowly the flood of sensation begins to recede. It’s a little like being wrapped inside of a bubble where the only thing that he can see, hear, taste, smell or sense is John. His guide. His omega.

After a couple of minutes John's hands slip around to grab his upper arms and tighten, urging Sherlock to stand. It's difficult to get his legs to cooperate; slipping into a zone always leaves him feeling weak and exhausted as his body struggles to reorient itself. He leans heavily against John, allowing him to lead the way out of Harry's bedroom. He's not even sure where they're headed until his legs make contact with something firm and he slides limply out of John's grasp, sprawling across a bed.

Though the scent is faded the covers and pillows smell of John and Sherlock moans softly, rolling over until his face is fully buried in the top pillow. John chuckles softly somewhere above and climbs onto the bed with him, and then the scent is even stronger: fresh and exhilarating. Instead of passing out like he normally does with Anthea, Sherlock shivers as John's fingers slide into his hair. Fingernails scratch lightly at his scalp and he breathes out, tilting his face just far enough to see John.

"Alright?" John asks softly, his eyebrows drawn together with worry. "I'm sorry, I should've warned you about Harry's bedroom. I don't go in there very often anymore, but she's always been a messy person. I didn't think it would be bad enough to send you into a zone, though." He bites at his bottom lip.

"S'fine," Sherlock rasps, and it takes a lot of concentration to force even that out. His brain feels like mush, synapses crossed and buzzing with confusion. John smiles, mouth tight at the corners, and curls in closer until he can nuzzle his forehead against Sherlock's cheek.

"Is this helping?"

By way of response, Sherlock curls his fingers into the fabric of John's shirt.

John sighs. "Okay, good. I've never had to do that before... help a sentinel in a zone, I mean. You scared Mary half to death, I think. You scared _me_." He pauses and blinks slowly, long lashes forming shadows against his cheeks. "It feels... I haven't let myself go before. Around anyone. Too much risk of a swoon. Even now I'm holding back a little. But you... you give me something to focus on. I like it."

That's dangerous, Sherlock wants to say, because John shouldn't feel like that. Sherlock shouldn't want this as much as he does. He settles for inhaling deep against John's hair and shutting his eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

It takes another half hour of constant contact on the bed before Sherlock decides that he feels restored enough to get up and continue his search. John does a relatively good job of hiding his disappointment, swiftly rebuilding his natural barriers as best that he can before they separate. He's never had the opportunity to pull any sentinel out of a zone before, and it was an interesting experience. Sherlock was so _focused_ on all of the smells in the room, it was like he hadn't even realized that his body was systematically shutting down. And all it had taken was physical contact and John allowing his walls to drop to help him come back.

He feels a little more centred now, even though he wasn't even the one having the zone. It's refreshing, soaking Sherlock up, wrapping him in gentle waves of sensation until Sherlock has had the necessary time to regroup. As they both get up and walk into Moran's room, still in contact via their joined hands for the moment, John wonders what it would be like to have Sherlock break him out of a swoon. Would it be the same thing, or would it be completely different to go from receiving an influx of everyone to just narrowing his concentration to his sentinel-alpha? 

Mary's been waiting out in the kitchen, but when she hears them enter her father's room she comes running. John spots the mulish look on her face and shoots her a warning glare, hoping that she's wise enough to remain quiet about any complaints she might have. Sherlock ignores her entirely, finally releasing John's hand so that he can properly observe Moran's weirdly neat room. At least in here they can be certain that there is no need to worry about Sherlock falling into another zone; this room is so compulsively clean that it looks bare, like a guest room that was never properly decorated. No pictures on the walls, no photographs of family members, no trinkets on the dresser. 

It's empty.

"Do you notice anything missing?" Sherlock asks at last, breaking the silence. His voice sounds a little shaky, John notices, a little rougher than normal, and he attributes it to the after-effects of a zone. No matter what Sherlock says, he needs a decent meal and some sleep before he ends up collapsing. John or not, zones take a lot out of a sentinel, especially a technically unbonded one like Sherlock.

"Not as far as I can see, but I didn't live here with him so it's hard to say." Mary enters, finally, running a critical eye over the contents of the dresser, closet and nightstand. "He usually keeps cash in his this drawer, I think. That's gone."

"Difficult to know when it was removed," Sherlock mutters. He steps over to the closet and flips rapidly through the pressed suits, pausing at a dark blue one that John has no recollection of Moran ever wearing. After a few seconds of thoughtful silence, Sherlock tears at the plastic covering the suit until he can get at the coat. There's an envelope tucked into the pocket on the inside. He rips it open and scans the letter quickly.

"Hey," Mary says instantly, stepping forward with her hand half-raised like she might try to take it from him. "That's personal."

"You want to find your father, don't you?" Sherlock says without looking at her.

Mary scowls and puts her hands on her hips, but before she can come up with a rebuttal - because John knows, he's been on the opposite side of that sharp tongue too many times not to know that she's going to come out with something cruel - John clears his throat and says, "What did you find, then? And how did you even know to look there?"

"Mud on the right trouser leg," comes the absent response. "No cleaner would ever send clothing back in such poor condition, or they'd be run out of business. No, Moran is the one who put this bag on, likely to make it look as though the suit has not been worn. Usually someone would only do that if they were trying to hide something." He folds the letter and checks the pockets of the trousers. He comes up with a key and a photograph, which he briefly examines before holding it out to them. "Do either of you recognize this man?"

John steps closer to get a good look. It's an old photo depicting a man, probably a couple years younger than Sherlock, with dark hair and brown eyes. He's got no idea who it is and frankly, he's relieved for that. Those eyes look cold, the face completely expressionless. "Sorry, no."

"That's James. He's one of my dad's old friends, but I haven't seen him in forever. He hasn't come around since I was a child," says Mary.

"What about this key? Do you know what it's for?"

"No. It just looks like a key. It could be for anything."

"It's for something," Sherlock says confidently.

"What did the letter say?" John asks.

"It was from the headmaster of Huxtable Academy."

"Harry's school?" John says, surprised. “Was she in some kind of trouble?”

“Not unless letters written home about students are frequently done in code.” Sherlock shows them the paper, and although it’s covered with writing not a single word is distinguishable. “Though it may just be a foreign language I don’t recognize, I’ll have to look at it more closely. Chances are, though, it wasn’t about something as simple as your sister’s poor grades.”

“So basically you don’t have anything,” Mary says accusingly.

“I have more than you did when you began, and given a few more hours I may have more yet.” Carefully Sherlock folds the letter and slips it, the key and the photograph into his pocket. Watching him, Mary looks like she wants to protest but can’t figure out how to do it, and John hopes she pulls in the resentment a little. Police aside, he genuinely thinks that Sherlock is their best hope for finding Moran and Harry. 

“Do you really think that headmaster has something to do with this?” he asks.

“What do you know about him?” Sherlock counters.

John pauses, considering, before he replies, “Not very much. I know that when Moran first moved in with us he was outraged that Harry had been attending a regular school up until then. He pulled her out immediately and didn’t even give her the option about where she wanted to go. He picked Huxtable Academy out for her. I went there to visit with them once before she began.” And Christ, that was an uncomfortable visit. Nearly every alpha had stared hungrily at him, like he was a five course meal sprawled out before a starving man. He’d done his best to hide his discomfort at the time, but the memory still makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

“Of course he did,” says Mary. “Dad owns half of Huxtable Academy.”

“He does?”

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmurs at the same time, pulling a thoughtful face. “Yes, John, I think it’s very likely the headmaster might have had something to do with your sister’s disappearance. I’ll need to examine the letter to make sure.” He goes to take a step towards the door and his knees buckle. John is at his side instantly, pushing him to sit down on the edge of the bed.

He puts the back of his hand against Sherlock’s flushed cheek, feeling the excess warmth. After a moment, he bends down and presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. Temperature is a little higher than it should be, but sentinel-alphas tend to run hot regardless so it’s not necessarily an indication of a fever. Sherlock takes in a slow, deep breath and John straightens up quick, suddenly aware of both their proximity and the fact that Mary is standing three feet away and scowling.

“You should go home first and rest,” he says, letting his hand slip from Sherlock’s cheek. “When was the last time you ate something?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t remember?” John asks, a little disbelieving, because he’s heard tales about how shit sentinels can be at looking after themselves but hadn’t put much credence to them. Until now. He shakes his head when Sherlock pouts, knowing that he’s right. “Jesus, no wonder you nearly passed out. Come on. We’re going to get a takeaway and then we’re going back to your flat.”

Sherlock’s mouth twists with annoyance, and he says, “Mycroft may be there. In fact, given the time of day he likely will be. We should –”

“Don’t try and put me off by mentioning your brother,” John scolds. Much as he dislikes the thought of seeing Mycroft again, Sherlock’s health is more important. He grabs Sherlock’s arm and pulls him up without much of a fight, just enough of a hesitation to make it clear that Sherlock’s not pleased.

“What about me?” Mary says.

“If we find something, I’ll let you know,” says John, and Sherlock shifts just enough to get his arm up around John’s shoulders. He knows damn well it’s far more likely a sign of possession than because Sherlock feels unsteady, but he lets it stay.


	17. Chapter 17

As it turns out, neither Mycroft or Anthea are at the flat when Sherlock and John get there. There's a note on the counter, which Sherlock doesn't need to read to know says that both of them have left for a foreign country and that the trip will be as short as they can possibly make it. It's the nature of Mycroft's job, that he has to travel, and as his guide Anthea has to accompany him. He shuffles through the kitchen and towards his bedroom, thinking that at least he'll be able to get some work down in peace. The flat is quiet as always without their presence, but then again this time he's not completely alone.

John trails him down to the bedroom and lingers long enough to watch Sherlock sit down and bend his head to the task of working on the code before he retreats. A few minutes later Sherlock makes out the sound of pots and pans clanging together, and his nose eagerly registers the smell of appetizing food that doesn't come from takeaway or Anthea or the cook Mycroft hires. His stomach growls hopefully, but he sternly puts it all aside and concentrates on the letter he has before him. It would be much easier if he had more than one page to work with, but he hadn't wanted to risk staying behind to search the room anymore: as it was, Mary looked like she wanted to pounce on him just for doing a cursory search of Moran's closet. Pushing his luck would not have helped the situation.

The process is slow but he slogs through it determinedly, using his laptop to make the occasional note or research. At some point John comes in with a plate of food, and he says something to Sherlock a couple of times before leaving the plate on the corner of the desk and leaving again. Sherlock ignores the offering, too involved in scanning each line of the code for letters that look similar to each other. Each time he grows even the slightest bit weary his mind conjures up the way Mary had twitched when Sherlock mentioned Huxtable Academy, and he knows that he is on the right track. There is a connection here, something worthwhile were he to only look in the right place.

Frustration bogs him down, makes thinking slow and thick. He pauses long enough to run his hands through his hair, something that generally helps to steady his mind. In this case, it does little to help. There's a little thought niggling at the back of his head. He knows there is _something_ , one tiny, key fact that will bring this whole mess clicking together, but for the life of him every time he makes an attempt to chase that thought it gets that much further away. He lets out an exasperated growl and spins away from the desk, looking blindly around the room.

Soft, sticky sweet teases his nose and his eyes focus with abrupt precision. John is laying on his bed only a few feet away, shirtless with only his jeans for modesty. His head is tipped back into Sherlock's pillows, throat bared to the point where Sherlock can easily see the flutter of his pulse. One of his hands is draped across his belly, the other hangs carelessly at his side and is threatening to tip over the side of the bed entirely, while his legs are sprawled carelessly across the lower half of the bed - spread just easily enough that Sherlock could slide between. He breathes deep, nose tilted into the fabric of the pillow, a smile playing around his lips that makes him look relaxed and easy and free. 

Sherlock licks his lips and rises without thinking, feeling a familiar hunger that has little to do with the cold food on his desk. As he approaches the desk, he thinks about the last time he was with John and how very clear he'd felt afterwards. It's enough to make him kneel on the edge of the bed, crawling up until he can slot himself between John's thighs. Up close, he can make out the fine gold hair on John's tummy with no problem at all. He touches them gently, running a finger up John's chest. He is not heavily muscled, but his physique speaks of long days spent with mates in some sort of physical activity. Rugby, perhaps.

John stirs at the sensation, squirming a little from his sleep. Blue eyes part fuzzy until he recognizes Sherlock, and then his smile broadens. "I wondered what it'd take to get you away from that," he says, voice rough. He reaches up, lazy and indulgent, and tugs at Sherlock's shoulders. Curious, Sherlock obeys, bending down until he's close enough for John to lick into his mouth. It turns into a hot, messy kiss that ends with Sherlock sucking ruthlessly on John's tongue while John's fingernails dig crescents into his back.

“You taste good,” Sherlock murmurs appreciatively.

He snorts at that, automatically licking his lips, and yawns. “I can’t believe you’re not tired yet. And you didn’t even eat the food I left for you,” he adds, a shade more accusingly, and Sherlock huffs. He’s still close enough to lightly fasten his teeth over the delicate curve where John’s neck meets his shoulder. John stills under him, breath escaping him in a soft gasp, and then he arches up until their hips come into contact. 

Smiling around the bit of skin, because he likes that John is so responsive to him, Sherlock sucks and nips at the flesh until the blood rushes to the surface. The bruise is soft and red, will bloom purple in a matter of minutes, and it looks pretty. He gives it one last lick, slow and thorough until John squirms, and then goes up on his hands and knees to lift the bulk of his weight from John. “Turn over.”

“Bossy,” John mumbles, but he obeys, stretching out until he’s one long, gorgeously tanned line of muscle from fingertip to toe. Sherlock thumbs his jeans open, easing his cock out, and relaxes on top of him again, rocking gently. John whines, fingers flexing restlessly. “You could’ve at least taken mine off too,” he says, and even though he’s face down it’s not hard to tell he’s pouting.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” Sherlock says against his neck, dragging his tongue slowly across the sweat that’s collecting at the base of John’s hairline. Salt and a little bit of grime, not overly pleasant but just underneath is something uniquely John that he’s already starting to crave. And it’s immensely appealing, the thought of lying on top of John and thrusting down between his warm, clenched thighs. Because he knows John would do that for him, would let him smear lube on his skin and press his legs together to make it good, and then John would smell like him, a clear warning to anyone who gets close that he’s not available. 

“Don’t tell me you have a thing for me coming in my pants.”

Spoken like that, Sherlock thinks he might. He groans in reply and lazily thrusts his hips. The fabric of John’s jeans drags against him, not comfortable, so he shifts his weight up until he can grind against John’s bare back. John moans, the sound high and sweet, pushing himself against the mattress. He still can’t get a hand in between to bring himself off and his fingers clutch at the sheets, twisting and pulling, until he reaches behind him and grabs at Sherlock’s thigh, leaving long thin scratches.

“Tease,” he rasps out, and then whines a protest when Sherlock’s weight abruptly lifts off. He encourages John to flip over again and then scoots back, nimbly opening up John’s jeans and dragging his cock out. John’s eyes go wide and Sherlock smirks, sucks him down easy because he’s experimented so much that his gag reflex is non-existent.

John lets out a deep moan and then can’t seem to stop, a constant stream of babbled sounds intermixed freely with Sherlock’s name. Sherlock sucks him hard, ruthlessly, and he writhes helplessly, one hand sliding into Sherlock’s hair to hold on. When he comes he goes utterly soundless, and Sherlock pins him down and swallows, then carefully licks him clean. He rises up, taking his aching cock in hand, and it only takes a couple of pumps before he’s coming too. His seed splatters against John’s chest, belly and thighs. 

“The technical definition of a tease is someone who doesn’t mean to follow through,” Sherlock says, admiring how John looks now. Wrecked. _Owned_. Heat flares again in his belly, but he tamps it down. 

“Git,” John says, but it’s filled with affection. He props himself up and makes a face, eyeing the mess on his stomach. “Was that really necessary?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, meeting his gaze, so sound in his conviction that John’s mouth closes against whatever other protest he might’ve been about to make.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock’s bed is something else, resulting in one of the best sleeps that John’s ever had. The mattress is just firm enough to keep him from sinking, yet it conforms to every muscle and cradles his tired body until he has no choice but to give in. With Sherlock wrapped around him, arms and legs clinging tightly and apparently not inclined to get up even though he’d been acting stubborn and downright stupid about the whole matter not thirty minutes before, John feels like he could sleep for weeks. 

He’s therefore not too pleased to feel the bed sink from the weight of another body, pulling him out of a sound sleep, forcing him to realize that Sherlock is – was - gone and it’s only the thick covers and the residual heat keeping him warm. Sherlock crawls over him on all fours then, nosing at John’s neck like an excited puppy. “I’ve solved it, John. I know what the letter says,” he whispers, and if he had a tail it would be wagging.

“Couldn’t you have solved it in another hour or two?” John mumbles without opening his eyes, unable to stop the smile from twitching at the corners of his mouth. After a few seconds of silence he peeks one eye open to see Sherlock looking mortally offended, like he can’t believe John would rather sleep than listening to his findings. He really can’t help his grin then, rolling over onto his back and sliding an affectionate hand through Sherlock’s messy curls. “Go on, then. Have you found out where Harry is?”

“I believe she’s at Huxtable Academy. Or, if not there, the headmaster knows where both she and Moran are. The letter I’ve decoded turned out to be a threat, issued to Moran by the headmaster. It alludes to some previous dealings between the two of them, and although it didn’t give exact detail I suspect they were of a criminal nature.” Sherlock yawns suddenly and then blinks, as though startled by his body’s reaction.

John chuckles. “Did you get any sleep at all? More than an hour or two?”

“I don’t need sleep.”

“I’m guessing your body is saying differently. You didn’t eat either, did you?” He rolls his eyes, already knowing what the answer to that is, and turns his head. He remembers putting his phone on the stand when he laid down last night. He groans when he sees the time, just past four in the morning. 

“Cases don’t wait for anyone, John.”

“This one does, because you’re going to eat something and then get a little more sleep before we do anything else. No!” A single upheld finger forestalls any arguments, Sherlock’s mouth slowly pressing shut into a deep pout that John ignores. He squirms out from under Sherlock, making a face when he realizes he’s still wearing his jeans and boxers. The feeling of dried come is not pleasant and he strips quickly, wrapping Sherlock’s robe around him instead. 

He leaves the room and heads out to the kitchen, deciding that something simple will be best because at this time in the morning there’s a better chance he’ll burn himself than there is of him making a successful meal. Sherlock follows him out and hovers in the doorway while John toasts and butters some bread. He puts the plate down on the table with two glasses of milk, because caffeine won’t help Sherlock sleep, and points to the chair opposite. Wearing a mulish scowl, Sherlock sits.

“I don’t eat while I’m working,” he says.

“You do now.”

“It slows down my mind!”

John tips his chin, eyeing him. “And I’m pretty sure you said that sex kicks your brain into gear, so. It will all balance out. _Eat_.”

With an exasperated huff, Sherlock snatches a piece of toast and rips off a little piece. He pops it into his mouth and chews, and if it’s possible for someone to chew sulkily then Sherlock is now accomplishing it. John takes a piece for himself, deliberately not paying attention, but thoroughly pleased that between the two of them they manage to polish off the stack and milk in less than twenty minutes. When the plate is empty, Sherlock sits back and blinks heavily lidded eyes like he’s not sure how that happened.

The silence is a comfortable one, broken only by Sherlock’s yawns which are steadily becoming more frequent, when John pushes his chair back. He sets the plate and glasses in the sink and rounds the table. It’s weird to be taller than Sherlock, leaning over him, and he sets a knee on the side of Sherlock’s chair and brushes a kiss over his mouth. Sherlock chases him, trying for more with a hand wound around John’s hip for balance, and John smiles even as his belly does a weird little flutter.

He likes this. It hits him then. Sherlock is a sentinel-alpha, but he’s not like any sentinel-alpha that John ever pictured. He’s not restrictive, doesn’t try to tell John what to do, doesn’t adhere to the traditional views of society the way that Moran does. He’s annoying and frustrating and doesn’t take care of himself at all, but he’s also possessive in a good way and has his own strange little way of caring. He came immediately when John rang for him, and he put up with Mary’s nonsense, and he’s doing everything he can to find John’s sister, and the sleepy cock of his head as he watches John watch him is both terrifying and endearing. 

“Bed,” John says, soft and unsteady, because he’s beginning to realize that he might be in way over his head here. 

“The case,” Sherlock counters.

“It’s just after five in the morning. No one will be around at Huxtable Academy even if we did go.” Sliding his hands under Sherlock’s arms, John coaxes him up. “We can go later today. I’m sure that nothing will happen between them and now.” Or at least, he hopes not. His mind helpfully provides him with scattered memories of the things that Harry has said and done since she started attending the academy. On the off chance that she really has been kidnapped, he prays she has the good sense to keep her mouth shut and not go off with alpha posturing that will only cause trouble.

Sherlock goes down easily enough, sinking into the bed with an exhausted grumble, begging hands dragging John down into the mound of blankets with him. In spite of all his protests he falls asleep quickly, face buried in John’s throat. John lets himself drift, never quite managing to sink back into sleep now that he’s started thinking about Harry and what kind of danger she might be in. No matter how much she frustrates him, it’s been just the two of them since their parents died. John’s not ready to lose her yet.

But a little nagging voice in the back of his mind can’t help pointing out that he might not get a say in it, that Harry’s not really _his_ anymore and hasn’t been for a while now. She acts like a stranger, like someone John doesn’t even know, and the flashes of the big sister he grew up with are few and far between. Every once in a while, though, she comes through. Just often enough that John can’t forget about the way she punched a bully for teasing him when he was seven, or how tightly she’d hugged him right after the funeral. 

He opens his eyes and sighs into Sherlock’s hair. It smells sweet, a little fruity, and he inhales a second time because it’s comforting. He feels wound up, strung out, with no idea how life has changed this quickly, because his biggest concern used to be what kind of career he’d end up with. 

He idly wonders if Sherlock would support his mate in going back to school.

Panic spikes through him, sharp, too _close_ , and he flinches. Sherlock stirs against him, mouthing restlessly against John’s collarbone. “Time’s it?” 

“Um… just past ten,” John says after a glance at his phone, and he’s surprised; he must have dozed for longer than he thought.

“What?” Sherlock shoots up, or tries to, their bodies are so entangled that he fumbles instead and nearly slides right off the bed. He grabs onto the sheets, squinting around the room in outrage. “We were supposed to be at the school by now.”

“You needed the sleep.” And John thinks he sounds normal, think he’s okay, until Sherlock stills and swings around to look at him. There’s something about the keen, quiet scrutiny that makes John flush and avert his gaze. He carefully frees the two of them from the blankets and stands up. Without the warmth of the bed, of Sherlock, he instantly feels cold. “But you’re awake now, so we might as well go.”

There’s a noticeable pause before Sherlock says, “Right.” He gets up, a little slower, and shoots curious looks at John while they get dressed and leave. John pretends not to notice, determined to ignore the warmth in his chest at the realization that Sherlock _cares_. He won’t go down this road. He can’t.


	19. Chapter 19

Huxtable Academy is pretty much what Sherlock expected: enormous, like the builders were attempting to compensate for something, and expensive. Because the students spend roughly 80% of their year here, the academy is actually compromised of several buildings all grouped together on the sprawling grounds. He knows from a quick internet search that the academy has practically everything a young alpha could desire, including a daily shuttle service to the nearby town, and that the whole area is surrounded by a ten foot high fence. Sherlock flicks a glance quickly over it as the cabbie puts on the brakes, noting that while it would be difficult to climb over the fence given the material it's made out of it wouldn't be impossible. 

The cab lets them off right in front of the ornate gates, which are open. A bunch of students are standing around chatting, but one by one their conversations slow to a stop as they catch a whiff of the new scents in the air. Sherlock receives looks of open hostility, but the way the alphas look at Mary and John is enough to make him bristle. Mary's a beta, of course, and alpha/beta pairings are common, but John is like a rare treat. The ultimate dream of any alpha, even if a guide-omega would be wasted on an alpha that didn't have true need of their service. He controls the urge to step closer to John and instead settles for glaring right back them, practically daring anyone to be foolish enough to approach.

"Come on," John says, either oblivious to or ignoring the show of alphaness going on right under of his nose. He sticks his hands in his pockets and strides through the gate with Mary and Sherlock right behind him. While Mary seems immediately at home and not all that bothered by the lewd comments Sherlock can hear their audience making, John's shoulders are tense and he walks stiffly. But not once does he let on even a little that he's aware of what they're saying, even though it can't be easy to ignore.

It's a little thrilling, actually, to watch how controlled he is. John's not like other guide-omegas that Sherlock has met. Most of them shy away from contact with sentinel-alphas and would never make an attempt to stand up to them, but he has the strong suspicion that John would have no problem whatsoever getting up in Sherlock's face if he felt it was necessary. Furthermore, he also suspects that if any of those alphas were to try and push their luck John could and would give them a solid beating in retaliation. He'd have done well, in the army, and yet if he had gone Sherlock wouldn't have had the opportunity to meet him.

They come to the main hall, where the visitors desk is located, and Mary goes in by herself because she's the one who has the best chance of garnering them a meeting with the headmaster. John folds his arms and looks straight ahead, like sheer willpower alone will be enough to make the handful of alphas who followed them disappear. Sherlock doesn't look at him, but he does scent John just a little. His sweet, natural scent is shot through with hints of annoyance and frustration and just the tiniest touch of fear, right down where a casual observer wouldn't catch it. Not unexpected and John's doing an excellent job of concealing it, but it pisses Sherlock off anyway.

"What's wrong?" he drawls, glancing contemptuously at the three alphas who are standing about a dozen feet away. His voices carries easily and he instantly becomes the recipient of three murderous glares, which is fine. Better that than their leers for John. He addresses the one closest, a sallow fellow with long brown hair. "Is your alpha companion not keeping you satisfied? Don't tell me you both need to go looking for an omega. I'd hardly think it's right for you to pull someone else into your travesty when you can't even make each other happy."

"What - that's not - we don't - " the alpha sputters out, his face bright red. He looks at one of the other alphas, who is also blushing, and Sherlock smirks.

"Really? Because I'm positive that you do," he says. "Nothing to be ashamed of, you know. I'm certain that your friends will be intrigued by the realization that all along you've both been eyeing them up, waiting for the opportunity to have more fodder for your intimate acts."

"The fuck?" the third alpha says finally. "You two are -"

"And you," Sherlock interrupts, forcing a smile on his face as he takes in the third alpha. "You're not interested in finding a companion at all because you're already mated. You should know that the wrong kind of concealer can run when it's dampened by sweat, by the way. Doesn't Huxtable Academy had specific rules in place about the admittance of mated alphas?"

John chuckles softly and Sherlock feels warm, his confidence growing as the third alpha steps forward into an aggressive stance. "You can't just say shit like that," he growls, doing his best to appear intimidating. 

"I can if it's true. Which it is. If I were you, I would be more concerned about worrying whether or not any of our conversation has carried into the building." Sherlock tips his head towards the open windows, which are barely half a dozen feet away. Judging by their horrified looks, none of the alphas noticed. As expected. He watches with no small measure of satisfaction as they all go stumbling away, not even bothering to give John another glance.

"You didn't have to do that," John says once they're alone again. He's grinning, though, and his blue eyes are soft. "Thank you, though."

Sherlock shrugs, suddenly embarrassed. He can't admit that it was instinct demanding he drive competition away from John, just on the off chance that John decided one of them might be better suited. He clears his throat. "Habit, I suppose. Being able to drive people away before they decide to turn something a confrontation into something physical is a skill Mycroft has attempted to drive into me for years."

"Because you prefer to just let it become something physical?" John says, quirking an eyebrow.

"Sometimes you would be amazed at what you can learn from a fight," says Sherlock. It's the truth, one he's tried to impress upon Mycroft that his brother staunchly refuses to grasp. Of course, considering that Mycroft abhors legwork of any kind it's not surprising that he wouldn't have any appreciation for the knowledge gained from seeing someone in battle.

John looks at him with an odd expression, but doesn't say anything. Instead he turns away, focusing his attention on the front door of the building as it opens again. Mary steps out first and right behind her is an older man, tall and chubby: he's a beta and married, though his wife is on the verge of leaving him, no children but one cat. He's in deep conversation with Mary and he's got a hand on her shoulder.

"These are my friends," Mary says finally, gesturing to Sherlock and John. "John, Sherlock, this is Doctor Timothy Huxtable. He's the headmaster of the academy."

"Pleasure to meet you," Huxtable says, and his voice is much higher than Sherlock anticipated. "I understand you're looking for some missing people."

"My sister, Harry Watson," says John.

"Hmm. Well, I regret to tell you that I haven't seen Harry since she left at the end of last term. All of our students were due back at the school three days ago, and when she didn't show up I left a message with your guardian. Unfortunately I've yet to hear from him, either." Huxtable shrugs helplessly. 

"And you didn't pursue her absence?" Sherlock says.

"I assumed Moran had his reasons and that Harry would show up at some point. I wasn't aware either one of them was missing until young Mary here came into my office." He squeezes Mary's shoulder and John frowns at the two of them. "Have you tried calling the police?"

"You know Dad would never want that," Mary says.

"Surely if the police could find him, it would be worth it," Huxtable says, but he looks pleased with her response.

"That's what I said," John mutters.

"Do you mind if we look around?" Sherlock asks. 

Huxtable blinks. "No, I suppose not. I'm not sure what you think you'll find, though."

Sherlock meets his gaze. "You never know," he says, not bothering to elaborate, because he knows one thing. Huxtable knows a lot more about what's going on than he's willing to admit, and Sherlock plans to find the evidence to prove it.


	20. Chapter 20

Harry lives in one of the female-only dorms on the right side of the campus. John’s never been in her room before, mostly because he’s never actually visited Harry here. She’s invited him to come stay with her for a couple of days before, once or twice, especially right at the start when she didn’t have many friends and the campus was new and unfamiliar. But John always said no, mostly because Harry’s attitude is hard enough to swallow without dozens of other alphas around to make her that much worse. 

He and Sherlock get more than a few strange looks as Huxtable leads them inside the dorm, but the fact that the headmaster is with them seems to be enough to keep people away. Just inside the door, he turns to them and says, “Stay here. I’ll get Professor Adler and she’ll be able to direct you to your sister’s room.”

He walks away and, predictably, Sherlock doesn’t even wait for him to turn the corner before he starts off down the long corridor on the left. John follows automatically, not bothering to look and see whether or not Mary’s decided to come along too. It’s surprisingly easy to fall into step beside him, matching the pace of Sherlock’s longer legs, until curiosity drives him to ask, “Where are you going?”

“I don’t need directions. I know your sister’s scent from her room,” Sherlock mutters, head tipping this way and that. 

“And you can still smell her here?” John says sceptically. It’s been a while since Harry’s been at the dorm.

“If I get close enough, yes.”

So basically he’s just walking until he finds a trace of scent that he can follow to the source, John guesses, watching him closely. Not exactly faster than Huxtable’s method, but it figures Sherlock wouldn’t want to stand around long enough for that. Still. The last time Sherlock tried to use his senses he slipped into a zone. And it was so _easy_ , one moment upright and the next he was down on his knees and lost to the rest of the world.

He can’t resist reaching out and settling his fingers lightly on Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock stops and looks at him, eyes wide, and John meets his stare and curls his thumb over his pulse point. The flutter right underneath his thumb is comforting in ways he can’t describe. He rubs gently over that unbearably tiny beat, making small circles, and exhales slowly before he eases up on his shields. His skin tingles all over at the flush of contact even as Sherlock relaxes just a little bit. 

If they were bonded, John wouldn’t have to actively do this unless Sherlock was going deep and focused. The natural give-and-take of their bond would be more than enough to keep him steady for something this stupidly easy even if John weren’t physically present; Sherlock could use his senses at will without fear of a zone. But they’re not, so it’s a conscious effort that’s way easier with contact. He tells himself that’s why Sherlock doesn’t pull away.

The alphas don’t stare as much when they walk by and see them like this, and John’s selfish enough to enjoy it until they come to an abrupt stop on the second floor, in front of room B18, where Sherlock gives the door such an intense stare that it’s a wonder the wood doesn’t burst into flames. After a moment of hesitation, John knocks. There’s a long pause, long enough for him to wonder if anyone is actually in there, before the door opens a crack and a girl blinks out at them.

“Oh,” she says, and then before John can respond she pulls the door open all the way. “You must be Harry’s brother.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” John says, a little surprised that she recognizes him. 

“Harry’s not here.”

“I know. But do you mind if we come in and look around a bit?”

The girl looks him up and down with a sceptical expression then pins Sherlock with a scrutinizing stare, and just as John is certain that she’s going to tell them both to get lost, she shrugs. “Whatever. I’ve got class so I don’t care. Inspection is tonight, so don’t trash the room or anything like that. Harry’s stuff is on the left and I haven’t touched it.” She steps out of the room as she talks, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Make sure you shut the door when you leave, it’ll lock automatically.”

“Thanks,” John calls after her, even though he’s pretty sure she’s no longer listening. Not that it matters, as Sherlock steps into the room and hauls him along. He kicks the door shut and glances around the room, realizing that the information about the left side of the room being Harry’s hadn’t been necessary.

It’s a mess, as far as dormitory rooms go, particularly when compared to the opposite side of the room. The sheets on the poorly made bed are wrinkled and dirty and there’s clearly junk that’s been shoved underneath in a half-hearted attempt to clean up. Wrappers litter the little stand beside the bed, even though the bin is empty, and a half a dozen glasses with the remains of juice and curdled milk still inside circle her lamp. Her desk is somewhat neat, probably out of necessity, and that’s where Sherlock goes first. John trails behind, not daring to let go after what happened the last time Sherlock got personal with Harry’s messy ways.

“My sister,” he mutters with a shake of his head. “Now I’m really pleased I never came to visit. I wouldn’t want to sleep on this floor.” He eyes said floor, which looks as though it’s seen infinitely cleaner days.

Sherlock smirks a little. “I suspect it was a point of contention,” he says idly, flipping through one of Harry’s books. “Her roommate is not fond of her. She’s made no effort to clean up this side of the room and has, in fact, been making full use of the closet.” He nods towards the half-shut door on Harry’s side of the room. Most of the things have been shoved aside to make room for tidily hung dresses and sweaters. “Is your sister the kind of person to take advantage of a close relationship with someone who has a heavy say in how the school is wrong?”

“Yes.” The answer is immediate; it’s not necessary to even think about it. But he’s distracted momentarily from the question when Sherlock pries John’s hand off his wrist. Before John has the chance to protest, Sherlock slides his hand up underneath his coat and jumper. The feel of the soft, warm skin of Sherlock’s belly beneath John’s palm is nothing short of astonishing.

“I need my hands free,” Sherlock tells him when John just sort of gapes, though John’s pretty sure it’s not his imagination that there’s a hint of pink on Sherlock’s face.

He swallows and straightens, which somehow puts him just a little bit closer. They never did have the chance to wake up properly, and now he mourns the missed opportunity to have Sherlock under _him_ for a little while. It’s a rush of satisfaction to see the way Sherlock’s lips parts at their proximity, his head tipping down to John’s in an unconscious move that can’t be feigned. This close, he smells good. Even better than he did the first time John met him, and he licks his lips.

Sherlock’s eyes track the progress of his tongue with interest, but he turns his head away. “I need to focus on the case, John. Your sister is still missing.”

“Yes, right.” John blinks at the reminder and figures Sherlock probably wouldn’t be appreciative of the suggestion that Harry and Moran could stay missing just a little longer so that they can indulge. “You were, um, asking about Harry. Right. She’s not big on school and I think she told me once that she didn’t have a lot of friends here, but I dunno if we’ll find much.”

“Perhaps not, but it doesn’t hurt to look…” Sherlock walks over to the window and inspects the frame, running his fingers along the paint. He makes a thoughtful sound low in his throat and pushes up on the glass to open it, leaning out, and suddenly John’s grip is more about keeping him from falling out entirely.

“The hell are you doing?” he demands indignantly.

“Someone’s been climbing up and down this wall,” Sherlock says, apparently not minding that the only thing keeping him from falling to his death is the guide-omega behind him. 

“That’s brilliant, but could you examine it from –” The rebuke dies swiftly as hot pain knifes up John’s arm. Literally. His grip on Sherlock buckles and Sherlock swears, throwing out a hand to stop himself from falling. John sinks against him even as he gropes at his arm, feeling the material growing damp and sticky quickly around the blade.

“John, what – ” Sherlock twists and goes quiet, still.

Harry’s roommate smiles brightly and holds up a gun to show them. Her other hand, sprayed with blood, strongly suggests it once held the knife now in John’s arm. “You should’ve just let go. Less work for me.”


	21. Chapter 21

“You’re not Harry’s roommate,” Sherlock says quietly, the words barely audible in the otherwise silent room. The smell of John’s blood is overwhelming, thick and coppery in the back of his throat, and it’s obvious from the way John’s standing that he’s in a lot of pain. His alpha demands retribution for the spilled blood of its omega and it takes all of Sherlock’s strength to press the desire to tear her throat out down. And he will. But not now, not yet, not while there’s a risk of the gun going off and hitting John.

“No, I’m not. Fancy that, the great Sherlock Holmes didn’t even know. You’re certainly not all you’ve been built up to be,” she says, tipping her head back and baring her teeth in a forced smile. “But then, I never really thought you were. No matter what my boss said, I knew you couldn’t have been. It’s just a pity he’s not here to see you get what you deserve.” 

“Your boss?” Sherlock takes a closer look at her automatically, trying to place the dark hair and eyes. Nothing about her appearance is familiar, but then that’s not a surprise considering how many ways she could have altered it. Even her scent is smoothly bland, devoid of even the neutral scent betas carry, and that's expensive. Costly. There are special soaps and fragrances that can be purchased to help hide a scent, but this? It's unnatural and it leaves him uneasy. 

Her smile widens, like she can sense exactly how he's feeling. "What's wrong? Don't you remember him? I should hope you do, considering how bloody well obsessed with you that he was." She steps closer, steadying the gun with her opposite hand, and Sherlock slides a protective arm in front of John. If she notices the move, and she must, she doesn't care because she just keeps talking. "Like I said, I always imagined that there would be something worthwhile about you. I suppose I was wrong, particularly given your inclination towards appallingly normal omegas."

Sherlock bristles at the hint that John is anything but extraordinary. "Who are you?" he demands. "What is your boss's name?"

"Moriarty. Jim Moriarty."

The name is enough of a shock that Sherlock rocks backwards, and John makes a soft, inquisitive sound of alarm. He shushes John without thinking, easing in front of him, meeting her steely gaze. Jim Moriarty is the beta that Sherlock has been chasing for years, ever since he was eleven years old and first became aware of the criminal mastermind by tracking a series of seemingly unrelated crimes through the media. He's never personally encountered the man, nor has there ever been any indication that Moriarty knows who he is. Sherlock narrows his eyes at her. 

"Forgive me if I don't believe the tale you're telling," he says cuttingly. "But Moriarty has no idea who I am, and frankly until I've put him in prison I can't imagine why he would care."

She laughs a little, but it's got a wild edge to it. "Oh really? Well then it's just your luck, ducky. I know how much it pains you to not have all the information, so why don't you and I and your little omega take a bit of a ride and I'll tell you everything you want to know. I won't leave even the slightest detail out; Moriarty will be an open book for you and you alone."

The offer is tempting. More so than Sherlock wants to admit, given that it would likely end in his death. And if it weren't for the fact that she had included John, he might actually be willing to accept. Fortunately he's not given the opportunity to accept or reject it. The door behind her flies open and, as she starts to spin around, an alpha charges in and takes her down easy. The gun goes flying across the room and John leaps out from behind Sherlock to seize it, standing back up and pointing it at the grappling alpha and beta.

"Both of you freeze!" he shouts.

"There's a boy," says the alpha, and she neatly knocks the beta around the head until she goes unconscious. Seemingly not caring that she just knocked someone out, the alpha stands up and smiles at John. "You can put the gun down now."

"Who are you?" John demands, gun not wavering in the slightest.

"Irene Adler," Sherlock says, and for once it's an honest to God guess but he's still right. Irene nods at him and John exhales, his body caving in once he realizes that the danger is over. Sherlock is at his side before he even registers moving, winding a supportive arm around John's waist and taking the bulk of his weight once the adrenaline begins to fade.

"I intervened as soon as I could. I was waiting for the opportune moment," Irene says. "You kept her talking, that was smart."

Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound in response, not wanting to admit that he wasn't talking to the beta just as a distraction. Even now, he hungers to know more about Moriarty. The answers he's been looking for are so _close_ \- maybe even closer than he realized if what she's said is correct and Moriarty has been aware of him all this time. Were it not for the fact that John is leaning heavily against him and requires medical assistance as soon as possible, he might actually attempt to wake her up and get some more information out of her. As it is, well. He'll leave that to Mycroft and Anthea once his annoyingly overprotective siblings hear what happened.

"Do you have a doctor here?" he asks.

"Yes. I'd take you myself but I'm afraid to leave this one alone. I asked Mary to call for help and then wait for me at the end of the hall. She should still be there, and she can take you to the infirmary."

John is as reluctant to leave as Sherlock, but the blood is streaming thick down the back of his arm and he gives in to the arm Sherlock drapes around his shoulders without much argument. They walk out into the empty halls together, and there’s no sign whatsoever of the other alphas who were so interested in them earlier. Perhaps it’s time for a meal, or classes, but the whole situation feels like something more. Like it was a set-up, a trap that he and John unwittingly walked into.

The thought is jarring and doesn’t sit right. He’s distracted while Mary fusses over John, acting like he’s going to keel over from the wound, and John shies away from her into Sherlock. It’s normal for an omega, even a guide-omega, to seek comfort from a mate when injured or ill and Sherlock reacts instinctively. He growls at Mary and tucks John closer into his side, not caring that John huffs a soft laugh. More importantly, Mary’s face falls into a scowl and she takes it as a hint to back off a little.

“What happened to you guys?” she demands after they’ve reached the Infirmary and the doctor has taken John off into a little room to give him stitches. The door is open, given Sherlock and John a clear sight of line to each other, and Sherlock takes advantage of it by deliberately sitting where he can see what’s going on. He feels edgy not having John around when he’s injured, though he tries to ignore the feeling. They’re _not_ mated and won’t be and his body needs to stop reacting as though they are immediately.

“We were attacked,” Sherlock says shortly. He needs space and time to think and, preferably, more information from that beta. But he looks her in the eyes. “Interesting how it occurred are at a place where your father has so much influence, and while you weren’t around to get in harm’s way.”

Mary bristles. “I wasn’t around because you and John decided to go off on your own! I was waiting for Miss Adler like we were supposed to, and the next time I looked the both of you were gone. So don’t try to pull this like I was the one who snuck off, because that’s entirely on you. And what are you trying to imply, anyway? That my dad has something to do with this? He’s missing, in case you forgot.”

“I haven’t forgot.” Of course not, but nor has he forgotten that this would be far from the first time that someone has engineered their own kidnapping. For what purpose, though, he’s not sure.

“Really?” Mary snaps. “Cause I was starting to wonder. You don’t seem to be doing much. John insisted that we contact you, but I’m beginning to think I was right in saying it was a waste of time. The only thing you’ve done so far is almost knock yourself out and put John in danger.”

Sherlock glares at her. “I _will_ find your father and John’s sister, but if you’re so disgusted with my methods then you don’t need to come along.”

Her eyes narrow and she glares right back, and that’s the scene John walks in on a couple of minutes later. His arm is bandaged and supported by a sling against his chest. He looks between the two of them and groans, bringing his free hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me I don’t have to deal with you two fighting like a couple of alphas,” he says wearily. “Because I’m really not in the mood.”

“Are you in much pain?” Mary asks, dropping the staring match instantly.

“No, it’s just kind of stiff. Lucky they have an actual doctor on staff here so I didn’t have to go to A&E.” John smiles at her, but Sherlock can tell he’s in more pain than he wants to let on. He can smell it, those bitter tones of sour that muffle the natural sweetness of his scent.

“I’ve learned everything I can here,” he says, making a swift decision and pushing off the wall. John blinks and then looks pleased. So even though he hasn’t, could do with a better look at Harry’s dormitory and Huxtable’s office, Sherlock just ushers him out of the infirmary. He tries not to think too closely about the fact that he’d much rather take John home.


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock is not pleased. John may not know him that well, but he's quickly discovering that there are certain things Sherlock makes obvious and this is one of them. He sits on the sofa and watches from the corner of his eye as Sherlock mutters over his phone and sends the occasional, betrayed look towards the man standing in the corner. If the man even notices the glares, he clearly doesn’t care because he hasn’t reacted in the slightest and that only seems to be upsetting Sherlock even more.

Then the front door opens and Sherlock is off the sofa like a shot. “Finally!”

“It’s only been a couple of hours, Sherlock, calm down.”

“It’s been a day,” Sherlock says flatly, looking like he wants to plant his hands on his hips and scowl. “Longer than twenty-four hours, Lestrade, you’re slipping!”

And technically, he is right even though John doesn’t say as much. Yesterday, as they were getting ready to leave the Academy, a couple of bodyguards had met them at the gate. Judging by the way that Sherlock had frowned and muttered something about interfering brothers, it hadn’t exactly been a shock to see them. The guards had accompanied them back to London, where one took Mary home and the other remained with Sherlock and John no matter how much Sherlock sulked over his presence. He’d stayed with them all night too, a silent figure in the corner.

Needless to say, between the guard’s endless, unfaltering stares and Sherlock’s pacing and huffing, John hadn’t got a very good night’s sleep. Sometime towards 3am he’d given in and taken one of the painkillers, but all the little white pill really did was make his head feel fuzzy; it did little to soothe the throbbing ache in his arm. Not to mention, it hadn’t helped him to sleep. He hadn’t bothered to take another.

Lestrade rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, apparently not bothered by the accusation. “Yeah, okay, and I’m going to base my standards on you. We can’t all glance at a crime scene and have all the evidence, you know.” His eyes flick past Sherlock, towards John, and the smile on his face becomes a little more friendly. “Hello. You must be John Watson. I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade with Scotland Yard.”

“It’s good to meet you,” John says, rising to his feet and offering a hand. Lestrade’s grip is strong, and it puts them in close enough proximity for John to identify the scent of a beta. Not unexpected, if he works with the police. Betas tend to be unbiased in a way alphas can't be, and, as a result, are often considered the most trustworthy. Because their instincts aren’t as primal, they can remain calm in situations an alpha or alpha-sentinel can’t.

“You okay?” Lestrade asks.

“I’m fine. Barely even hurts anymore.” It’s a lie, and from the look Sherlock darts at him it’s a poor one. But then he’s also tired and hungry and he feels a little dizzy, and it’s not like any of that takes precedence over finding Harry and Moran.

“Alright then. Your brother and sister are on their way back,” Lestrade says to Sherlock. “In the meantime, they’ve taken the woman who attacked you both into custody. I’ve already been ‘round to see her this morning, but I’m afraid I couldn’t get very much out of her. She did mention that she wouldn’t be behind bars for long. Seemed to think that someone would be coming to break her out real soon.”

“They can try,” Sherlock says dismissively. “What _did_ she say? In as exact detail as you can, unless you want me to go there and talk to her myself.”

Lestrade’s already shaking his head before he's finished speaking. “No way, Sherlock. Not without Mycroft’s permission. She already tried to kill you once.”

“Do you work for Mycroft?”

The question surprises them both, John can tell, and then Lestrade starts laughing. “Me?” he chokes out, shaking his head and snorting. “Work for this family? You must be joking. I wouldn’t last for more than five minutes before I either quit or tried to take them both out. No, I really am a detective inspector. Sherlock acts as my consultant sometimes, which means Mycroft decided that when he’s out of town I’m licensed to act as _his_ minder.” He jerks his thumb towards Sherlock.

John relaxes a little after hearing that. He’s still not completely sure about seeing Mycroft again, never mind someone who’s loyal to him. After all, the last time the man was around he’d basically drugged John into needing to be around Sherlock. And while he can’t exactly argue against the results, he’s none too pleased with having been manipulated. He has the feeling that there’s not too much Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t do if it meant the safety of his little brother, and that doesn’t sit well.

He listens quietly while Lestrade recounts his visit to wherever their attacker is being kept in what can only be described as exhausting detail. Sherlock literally wants to hear everything, including how long it took her to respond to each question and what sort of body language she’d used. Lestrade wasn’t lying, though. There really isn’t much to be found in her answers. She hadn’t even offered up a name, though according to Lestrade D.N.A. and fingerprints had both been taken so if she was in the system it wouldn’t take long to figure out who she was.

“I want to see her,” Sherlock says when this is all done.

“I already told you, no.”

“Why not?”

“Take it up with your brother, not me.”

Sherlock eyes him for a moment and then huffs. “Even if it were up to you, you’d still say no.”

A smirk breaks out over Lestrade’s face, but he sobers quickly. “Until we knew who she was, yes I would. I’d keep you both locked up somewhere safe until I knew why she’d tried to kill you and your mate.”

“I’m not his mate,” John mutters, more to himself than anyone else. It’s just as well, because neither one of them pays any attention to his comment. He leans back against the sofa. The dizzy feeling is beginning to get worse. He wonders if it’s due to a lack of sleep or something more. He certainly doesn’t feel hungry anymore; his stomach is starting to cramp – though that could very well be from a lack of food. 

“So you’re just going to keep me here until Mycroft arrives?” Sherlock demands.

Lestrade’s phone beeps and he glances down at it, then back up at the ceiling with a suspicious squint like he’s looking for something. “Yes. You’re just going to have to suffer the embarrassment of being protected for the next ten minutes. And also, I swear your brother times everything in his life so that he can be as dramatic as possible.”

This too, is clearly not a surprise to Sherlock from the way he scoffs and throws himself down beside John, folding his arms across his chest and pouting. There’s a few inches space between them, and John scoots a little closer without really thinking about it. If Sherlock notices or minds the increased proximity he doesn’t comment on it, much to his relief. He’s not really sure why he did that, or why the dizziness is a little better now that their thighs are almost but not quite touching.

The guard stiffens up a couple minutes later and his eyes snap to the front entrance, where the door has just opened. Mycroft walks in, closely followed by a woman John doesn’t recognize. There’s an easy familiarity between them that’s familiar: they’re mates, but more than that they’re bonded. Sentinel and guide. He’s never been around a pair like this before, and it’s fascinating to watch how they interact: always in close contact without even noticing it, like their bodies naturally gravitate towards each other.

“Sherlock,” the woman says. “Are you two okay?”

“We’re fine,” Sherlock says reluctantly. “That’s Anthea,” he adds in an undertone to John.

She looks relieved. “Good. We were worried when we heard that you’d been attacked. And you must be John.” In a couple of long, light strides she’s across the room. John stands up reluctantly, surprised by how much energy it takes to get up. Her hand is surprisingly tiny, but she holds on tight and stares into his eyes. A little frown tugs at the corner of her mouth and her nostrils flare.

After several uncomfortable seconds of intense staring John tries to pull his hand away, but she doesn’t let go. If anything, her grip only tightens, and she says, “How are you feeling, John?”

“I’m fine.”

“No, really.” Her eyes turn dark and penetrating, forbidding the use of any platitudes, and it feels like it’s only the two of them in the room. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m dizzy,” he admits. “Tired. My arm hurts. So does my stomach.”

“Cramps?”

It’s a weirdly intimate question, but he answers anyway. “Yeah.”

Anthea nods slowly, like she was expecting that response, and her voice is coloured with regret when she says, “John, I think you may be in the beginning stages of your first heat.”


	23. Chapter 23

Heat. Just the mention of the word is enough to draw Sherlock’s attention away from where he's glaring intently at his brother, turning instead to John and Anthea. Mostly to John, who looks so horrified, face completely white aside from the two flushed spots of colour on his cheeks, that Sherlock has to stop himself from moving to his side. There’s a long moment of frozen silence, like everyone is waiting for John to react, and then John starts shaking his head. 

“No,” he says, and then a little louder, “No, I… it can’t, I haven’t –”

“You are,” Anthea interrupts, using that calm and soothing voice that she’s so good at. Sherlock thinks she must practice it sometimes. “I can tell by the shift in your shields. It’s just the beginning stages and no one else will be able to tell until your scent changes, but it’s happening.”

John is still shaking his head, like will power alone is enough to reject the reality of what she’s trying to tell him. Anthea squeezes his hand, not letting go, not giving him the opportunity to run. “I’m not sure how you and Sherlock have decided to handle this, but you should know that your first heat is going to be strong. It always is, particularly when you’ve been intimate with your mate. You’ll both be out of commission for at least three to five days –”

“He’s not my mate,” John says, wild and a little desperate.

Sherlock winces just a little under the strength of the _look_ his brother sends him but straightens, refusing to quail under Mycroft’s furious gaze. He lets himself move, walking over to John and Anthea, scenting John automatically as he gets closer. At first sniff nothing seems to have changed and he thinks that Anthea might be wrong, but a second, deeper breath tells him there is something subtle happening. It’s elusive, a little hint of something deliciously sweet underneath, but it’s there.

“John doesn’t have time for this now,” Sherlock says, leaving aside any mention of mates. It’s not the point. Not right now. “We have a case that we’re working on, and there is absolutely no way that it can be set aside for three days, never mind five. You can get him suppressants, can’t you?” 

“Suppressants?” John repeats.

“They’ll put your heat off as long as you keep taking them,” Sherlock tells him. He wants to put an arm around John. His alpha demands it, wants him to stake his claim on the omega going into heat, wants the other alpha and betas in the room to know that John is claimed already. He doesn’t. “Traditionally they’re only given to omegas who are already mated or in exceptional circumstances. I would think this counts.”

“They’re also dangerous, Sherlock, especially if given to an omega before their first heat. And at this stage, I’m not certain that they would be functional. They might delay John’s heat, but they wouldn’t suppress it entirely.” Anthea frowns as she talks, clearly not happy with this idea.

“I’d be alright with a delay,” John says quickly. He finally tugs hard enough that she releases his hand and he backs up a step into Sherlock. The impact makes him start in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything he leans into it, and Sherlock can’t help letting a possessive hand rest on John’s hip. 

Anthea sighs. “You should also know that occasionally suppressants don’t work at all for guide-omegas. Your biology could reject it. Particularly if you have a _potential_ sentinel-alpha in close proximity.”

“So I’ll just stay away from Sherlock for the night.”

Sherlock bites down on the growl that wants to come out, not liking the idea of anyone keeping John away from him. Anthea’s eyes flick over to him and there’s something entirely too knowing about that look. But all she says is, “An admirable idea, John, but no. It would only place more stress on your system if Sherlock were absent. Your body might actually try that much harder to drive you into heat to entice Sherlock to return, and that could send you into a swoon. Then we’d _really_ have a problem on our hands.”

“There is, of course, another alternative,” Mycroft says.

“No, there’s not,” Sherlock snaps, glaring at him again. The alternative is for him and John to let the heat happen so that they can mate and bond. Mating alone wouldn’t be enough; alphas and omegas just have to ride the process out. But there has been documented evidence that the combined chemical and spiritual changes from both a mating and bonding are enough to shock the body into stopping the heat. It’s typically followed by another, less powerful heat anywhere from a week to four weeks later.

Mycroft exhales in that way which means Sherlock is raising his blood pressure, but before he can say anything Anthea shoots him a warning look and puts her foot down. “We’ll have a doctor come in to give you a quick examination, John. If she feels that you’re safely able to take suppressants, she can give them to you.”

It gives Sherlock untold amounts of pleasure to watch how effectively Anthea can shut his brother down. He tries hard not to smirk. “Once you’ve taken them, we can resume the search for Harry,” he mutters into John’s ear, meant for him alone. He doesn’t even realize that John’s been trembling until it stops at the reminder that Harry is still in danger and needs her brother’s help.

“In the meantime,” he adds, returning his look to Mycroft. “I need to talk to that woman and find out what she knows about Moriarty.”

“No,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock bristles at the immediate denial, not that Mycroft seems to care. “No one is better equipped to question her than me!” he hisses. For years no one listened to him about Moriarty; Mycroft thought he was just being a silly child, stringing together cases that had no real connection in a fit of wishful thinking. It wasn’t until a foreign diplomat’s home was blown up last year and the people responsible mentioned the name Moriarty that Mycroft started to take the situation seriously.

“She tried to kill you both, Sherlock, and until I know why you’re not going anywhere. For whatever reason Moriarty is targeting you. I’m positive I don’t have to give you a detailed explanation of what that could mean for your future.”

“So you’re just going to keep us imprisoned here?” John says.

If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would say that Mycroft looked afraid. Worried. His brother doesn’t bother to dignify John’s question with a response, just looks meaningfully at Anthea before he turns and walks out of the room. Lestrade and the bodyguard both follow after him and a low murmur of conversation breaks out the instant the door is closed behind them. Sherlock clenches his hands into fists, frustration burning hot through him, not bothering to try and eavesdrop. He can’t stand the way Mycroft treats him like a child even now.

John looks at him. “He can’t do that, can he?”

“He can try,” Sherlock says, swallowing against the bitter taste of anger. 

Anthea glances back and forth between them. There’s a little smile on her face. “The doctor is on her way. Come upstairs, the both of you.”

The doctor wants to examine John in private. She’s a beta, fortunately, and so, in spite of the alpha inside him that rages over leaving John alone with her, Sherlock retires to his bedroom and paces. He needs to talk to that woman, but the chances of getting close enough to do so are slim. He knows he can figure out where she’s being held, but Mycroft’s security will be tight. And while he’s got through Mycroft’s defences before without too much difficulty, it takes time and effort – both of which he does not have in spades right now.

He finds himself thinking about John, about John’s reaction to being told that they would have to stay inside the house, how indignant he’d looked, how ready he’d been to climb out the window and down the walls if necessary. A perfect match for Sherlock, really, because anyone who knows Sherlock would know that he doesn’t take orders well. Mycroft is probably expecting him to escape and head straight for the suspect. It’s the natural course of action to take.

Sherlock pauses, looks at one of his experiments without really seeing it. Maybe that’s the point. 

Moriarty has never allowed one of his people to be caught. Even the two men who’d killed the diplomat and spilled Moriarty’s name had been quietly knifed in solitary confinement not three hours after the fact. So why allow this woman to stage a blatantly sloppy attack only to let herself be taken? Because Sherlock is aware, thinking about it now under calm conditions, that he could’ve taken her down. Alphas and sentinel-alphas alike have been known to snap at the slightest provocation to an omega or guide-omega. He would’ve torn her apart before she shot John again.

Unless her getting taken is what Moriarty wanted, and the only reason for that would be to keep them away from Huxtable Academy. Preoccupy him with false leads, incorrect information, spoon fed from what is probably one of the lesser recruits with no real useful details. Maybe even lure him out of the house to wherever she’s being kept, make Sherlock an easier target –

“Well that was invasive,” John says, entering the room behind him. He shuts the door and rubs at his eyes. “God, remind me never to do that again. At least she gave me the stupid pills.”

“John,” Sherlock says, spinning to face him and grasping John’s shoulders. “We need to get back to Huxtable Academy. I think that’s where your sister is.”


	24. Chapter 24

Sneaking out turns out to be a lot easier than John expects. But then, he didn’t realize he was accompanying a master. As Sherlock smugly explains on their way to the train station by way of cab, he long ago figured out every way in and out of Mycroft’s home. And considering that Mycroft and Anthea didn’t spend a lot of time there, Sherlock probably knows the place better than they do. Watching him boast, chin cocked up proudly, John gets the feeling that his parents must've had a hell of a time keeping him under control when he was younger.

There’s a train leaving the station as they arrive and Sherlock purchases two tickets. A few people stare at them as they get on, and John tries to push the possible explanation as to why out of his head. The doctor had told him that he was fortunate Anthea had caught on to his coming heat as soon as she had, because suppressants were only effective if taken within a certain amount of time. She believed that he was taking them just within the limit, and she’d readily handed over one of the little purple pills.

However, she’d also given him a warning that he had not wanted to hear. Once an omega enters their first heat there's no stopping it, not unless he wants to mate. Suppressants will help him to put it off for a while, but eventually – probably quicker than normal since this is his first heat - his body will adapt to the drugs and they won’t work anymore. And considering that he’s a _guide_ -omega who hasn’t been bonded yet, there’s a good chance that heat will knock him into a swoon. One that he won’t easily be pulled out of.

The thought is chilling, and suddenly his confident words to Ella require second guessing. He remembers what a swoon is like. It’s overwhelming. Unlike a sentinel, who becomes focused on one specific sense to the exclusion of all else during a zone, guides become open to _everything_ when they fall into a swoon. That, plus the heat that would be ravaging his body, could easily provide so much stimulation that he loses his mind. The doctor had basically told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to be mated and bonded as quickly as possible if he wanted to survive.

But he doesn’t want to be mated and bonded anymore now than he did before. Even with the possibility of insanity staring him in the face as soon as the drugs stop working – and she’d told him, too, as he swallowed the first pill, that there was no way to know how long they would last for – he’s not sure which fate is worse. He turns his head to look out the window at the rushing scenery, wondering if it wouldn’t be easier to just kill himself now and no longer have to worry about going mad or being mated or bonded to some alpha who’s like Moran.

Sherlock shifts beside him and John’s eyes go automatically to him in the glass, studying the line of his chin and cheekbone. He thinks that if Sherlock offered he might accept, because he’s not like the others. And he thinks that maybe they’ve been fooling themselves all along, that their initial agreement to have sex every time they needed the grounding influence might have been stupidity. There’s a reason that hasn’t worked for anyone else. Even now he can feel his fingers itching with the urge to touch.

He also knows that Sherlock won’t. Offer, that is. What’s between them is nothing more than a tenuous friendship, built out of a mutual desire to solve the case. And once that’s done, they’ll… what? Meet up every week for a fuck until John falls into his heat, into a swoon? He tries to picture going back to the shelter, picking up his life again after the past week. He can’t. It feels like this whole situation, not just his heat but everything, has irrevocably changed things and he doesn’t know how to keep going. 

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock says suddenly, and then he gets up and grabs John by the wrist and pulls him up and down the hall. John stumbles, startled, but doesn’t fight when Sherlock yanks him inside the toilet and shoves the door closed. He flicks the lock before turning around, eyes burning.

“Sherlock? What –” 

The questions brimming on John’s tongue are instantly forgotten when Sherlock kisses him, pressing him back against the wall until their bodies are one long, hot flush of sensation. The prickling itch underneath his flesh instantly surges and John brings his hands up, clutching at the back of Sherlock’s shirt desperately. Until now all of their encounters have taken place in bed. There’s something delicious about the fact that they’re both standing, on equal footing, and in public no less.

Hands drop to the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath, and John groans into the kiss. He can already feel the difference of the suppressant kicking in; his stomach has calmed down and his muscles no longer ache quite as bad. But the hunger for Sherlock, for his taste, for his scent, has not diminished in the slightest. If anything, it’s just getting worse. He wants to strip them both bare and minimize the distance between them as much as possible, could crawl right inside Sherlock’s skin and stay there forever.

Apparently agreeable to the former, unspoken plan, Sherlock unexpectedly drops to his knees and begins fumbling around with John’s belt. It doesn’t take him long to get it unbuckled and the zip pulled down but it feels like an age. John leans against the wall for support and trembles, caught up in the pheromones permeating the air. It’s a heady, mesmerizing smell that he can taste on the back of his tongue and he could happily roll around in it. He puts a shaking hand to Sherlock’s cheek.

“Please,” he breathes, shocked by the sound of his own voice. How rough it sounds, how _deep_. But he knows what’s coming and the anticipation is sweet; he can’t help watching, fascinated, by the sight of the proud sentinel-alpha on his knees.

Sherlock smirks up at him like he knows what John is thinking before opening his mouth, taking the head of John’s cock inside. John’s eyes flutter shut at the wet heat and he has to bite down on the moan that tries to escape, because if they’re heard he knows they’ll be kicked out. When that’s not enough he brings his fist up to his mouth and sinks his teeth into his fingers to stay quiet. He clenches his free hand at his side, trying to remember how to breathe through the onslaught of sensation pounding through his blood. How is Sherlock so impossibly skilled at this? 

A series of soft whimpers are smothered by his hand when Sherlock swallows, nearly bringing him to the edge. But then the bastard backs off a little, using his tongue in ways that are surely illegal. John's thighs tremble as soft fingers cup his balls. The pressure is almost enough but not quite, and Sherlock seems to know when it's too much. The sweaty slide of his fingers is as torturous as it is pleasurable and John begs without words when Sherlock starts to pull back.

He doesn’t stop until only the tip is left between his lips – his gorgeous, plush pink lips. John has no memory of opening his eyes but now he can’t stop staring. Sherlock's eyes are blown with lust as his hands slide to rest against John's hips. He wants to fuck Sherlock’s mouth more than anything, but the grip is strong to fight against and he doesn’t want to overstep his bounds either.

But then Sherlock squeezes his hips just once, hard, like he’s trying to get John’s attention, and lets go. John gasps out loud and his hips move automatically. He tries to be gentle, still not really sure Sherlock wants this, but the way Sherlock looks up at him… there really can’t be any doubt. There’s nothing but conviction in those blue-green eyes, and when John still persists in holding back, unwilling to believe he’s really seeing what he thinks he is, a hand settles on his arse and forces him forward.

That’s it. John rocks forward helplessly, muffled whimpers spilling out in spite of his best efforts. He fucks deeper into the sinful heat and is never sure what causes his orgasm to build faster, the sight of Sherlock so willingly taking his cock or the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue. He bites down on his hand so hard as he comes that he tastes blood, but he can’t even bring himself to care. His legs feel shaky and he pants for breath, overwhelmed and punch drunk on lust.

“Sherlock,” he says reverently, and Sherlock’s eyes widen a little for the first time. John doesn’t care. He falls to his knees and kisses Sherlock fiercely, pouring every ounce of confusion and fear and affection into it. He gropes for Sherlock’s cock and rubs it hard with the palm of his hand. Sherlock shudders under him and lets John get his jeans open. His cock is hot and hard and John pumps him fast.

“John,” Sherlock whispers back, spilling white across their laps and John’s hand. Still breathing hard, John tastes it. A little bitter, not nearly as intoxicating as he would have expected, but it temporarily soothes the last of the itch like a flame snuffed out. He licks his lips afterwards and Sherlock growls.

“What was that that, anyway?” John says a few minutes later, lips bruised from kissing now, straddling Sherlock’s lap.

“You wouldn’t stop squirming. It was distracting.”

John rolls his eyes. He hadn’t noticed. Anthea was right, though. He would have expected this to make things worse, but now he understands how Sherlock felt. His mind is clearer, now, like someone lifted a veil that was blocking his view. The itch to touch and taste and scent is – not gone, but lessened. He hopes it stays that way.


	25. Chapter 25

In the dark, with the gate closed and the grounds relatively quiet, Huxtable Academy looks slightly more intimidating. Not that Sherlock cares. It takes him less than thirty seconds after closing the door of the cab to identify a way for him and John to enter, and by the time John's paid the cabbie and the car departs he's already striding towards the fence. John trails along behind him, watching as Sherlock cranes his head back and peers up at the top: a top that’s a good four or five feet above his head.

"I hope you're not planning what I think you are," John says finally, after about a solid minute of silent staring. He knows enough to keep his voice quiet so that they won't be overheard, but that makes his tone no less firm. "Because I have to tell you there's no way _you're_ getting over that, never mind _me_. So unless you happen to know how you're going to get the gate open..." He trails off then and frowns at Sherlock. "You're not planning to use a lock pick? I'm pretty sure the security on this place would be good enough that an alarm would be tripped if you did."

"Regrettably no," Sherlock murmurs. He'd examined the gate earlier on their way into the Academy. He thinks that, in all likelihood, he probably could get it open without the key. It might take a bit of work and more time than they really have, but it could be done. Unfortunately John's right. The chances of there being some sort of alarm are too high. He needs privacy for what they're about to do, which is why they're going with plan B. He turns to face John and bends down, cupping his hands. 

"I want to believe you're joking, but your expression tells me you're not," John says, already sounding resigned. Sherlock just looks at him, and after a moment John sighs heavily and takes a step towards him. He puts his foot into Sherlock's hands and braces his hand against the wall to keep his balance as Sherlock slowly straightens up. His free foot swings through the air, scrabbling uselessly against the fence before landing on Sherlock's shoulder.

John swears under his breath and Sherlock, somehow, keeps quiet instead of pointing out how poorly this attempt at breaking in is going. He lifts John's foot as high as he can and waits, arms trembling with the strain of holding something so heavy for any length of time. He can feel the movement of John doing something above him, perhaps struggling to get a good grip on the edge of the wall with only the use of one hand, but doesn't dare lift his head long enough to be able to see. If he moves even an inch, they're both going to fall over.

"Sorry, sorry," John sputters, and then he must find his grip because the incredible pressure on Sherlock's arms eases a little bit. John's right foot catches against the wall and then his left foot is out of Sherlock's hold entirely, and he looks up to see that John is trying to haul himself up far enough to straddle his wall. It takes him a couple of attempts to get his leg up and over, but he manages. He makes it.

There's just barely enough light for them to be able to see. John's features are shadowed by both pain from jostling his wounded arm and the lack of illumination, and yet it crosses Sherlock's mind that he looks good. Strong and competent, not at all like the guide-omega's or omega's he has met before. He impatiently shakes the thought off and backs up a few steps so that he can get a running start. He launches himself at the wall, hands flailing until John catches him around the wrist and helps to yank him the rest of the way up. It would work perfectly but for the fact that John leans back just a little too far.

Hitting the ground on the other side like a sack of discarded trash is not how Sherlock had imagined this going. He feels more than hears John groan beside him and slowly lifts his head, realizing that least they've fallen into some bushes instead of out in the open where there's a chance they could be seen. His body aches from head to toe. He sits up carefully and takes a quick inventory, deciding that it doesn't feel as though anything is broken. His shoulder is awfully tender, though.

Beside him John groans a second time. "We're leaving through the gate."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I think." He's slower to sit up than Sherlock and immediately winces, hand closing protectively over the bandage on his arm. "Bloody hell that hurts."

"I suppose pain medication only helps so much," Sherlock says.

John shoots him an incredulous look. "Yeah, it's not really meant for falling off fences." 

Sherlock shrugs, suppressing a wince, and gets clumsily to his feet. He holds a hand out to John, feeling a rush of satisfaction when John accepts the help without hesitation. It's even better when John doesn't make any attempt to move away from him once he's standing, just stays close enough that their arms brush together. He doesn't let go of Sherlock's hand, either, and Sherlock makes no move to reclaim the appendage. He steps forward and John falls into step beside him naturally.

They creep across the grass towards the main building, where he knows that Huxtable's office is. Here he does have to risk using a pick on the door. It's either that or break a window, since none of them are open, and the sound of breaking glass would be easily audible on such a quiet night. John stands guard, watching to be sure that no one stumbles across them, while Sherlock works on the lock. All of the practice he's HAD turns out to have been in his favour, because he has it open in less than three minutes.

Huxtable's office is conveniently located right on the ground floor. It's unlocked and enormous, far bigger than Sherlock was expecting. But then, considering the size of the man's ego, he supposes that it's really not too surprising. He steps aside for John to enter and lets the door swing almost all the way shut. He knows better than to turn on the light. Instead he takes his torch out of his pocket instead and switches it on, aiming the beam towards the ground. The curtains are closed, but they can't be too careful.

"Jesus," John says when he gets a good look at the place.

"My thoughts exactly," Sherlock says, and marches over to the desk. This too is unlocked, and it makes him question Huxtable's sanity. Is he such an egomaniac that he truly believes none of his employees would snoop given the chance, or does he have nothing to hide?

John begins to poke through the filing cabinet using the light of his mobile phone. "I don't see anything," he remarks. "This looks like student files. Huh."

"What?"

"It's kind of odd. I just noticed there's a file jammed at the very back..." He reaches into the very back and pries out a folder that's definitely seen better days: the once stiff material is ripped and stained and sags, doing little to protect the papers inside. He kneels down, setting it on the floor, and flips the cover open. "Wow, look at this. It says here that one of the students at this school disappeared right before the last session ended."

Sherlock frowns. "I didn't hear about that."

"Me either. Maybe nothing happened. Maybe the kid just wanted to go home.” John pauses, studying the papers. “Still. You’d think the media would’ve picked that up. So maybe Huxtable covered it up."

Halfway through a large stacks of papers that are proving to be utterly useless, Sherlock freezes. He remembers the letter he'd found in Moran's room and how he'd decoded it, thinking that it was a threat from the headmaster _to_ Moran. What if he was wrong? What if was the other way around and Moran was the one threatening the headmaster? His mind begins to race, puzzle pieces that made little sense before suddenly clicking into place. A child goes missing. Huxtable covers it up. Moran, who has a share and vested interest in the school, finds out.

Why, though? That's the only thing that makes no sense. He feels like there's something he's missing, a connection that he doesn't understand. He rocks back on his heels, drumming his fingers against the stack of papers, distantly hearing John continue to talk in the background. Was Moran's - and by association, Harry's - kidnapping staged? Perhaps the man hasn't actually been missing at all. But again that leaves the question of why? 

John and Mary made it clear that Moran wouldn't have wanted them to go to the police. Which means that to find Moran and Harry, they would've had to bring someone else in. Someone like Sherlock, who had just happened to make John's acquaintance no more than a handful of days before the whole situation began. His thoughts stutter to a blinding stop as he contemplates full picture of the woman sent to attack them both, the name she'd mentioned, and what it might all mean.

"I wondered when you would grasp it, Holmes."

"Fuck," John says in surprise, lurching to his feet, and then he stops. His face twists with confusion and he darts a look at Sherlock, clearly uncertain as to whether they're in danger or not. "Moran?"

"No," Sherlock says hoarsely, regretting the fact that neither of them had shut the door fully, and looks up at the man standing in the doorway. "That's Moriarty."


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is officially off hiatus. I apologize for the long wait, but stress - unfortunately - does that to a person, and I hope there are still interested readers out there.

Moriarty. The ominous word seems to hang heavily in the otherwise silent room. With those four syllables, Sherlock seems to stop breathing. His heart now pounding uncomfortably fast, John slowly shifts his eyes back to the man standing in the doorway. Even with the poor lighting, he recognizes Sebastian Moran. After just a couple weeks of living in close proximity that thick scent became unmistakable, and he wonders why he didn't realize Moran was there before. 

Moran takes a step into the room and carelessly turns on the light, apparently not bothered by the fact that someone on the outside could see it. Or it means that he knows for a fact that there's no one around _to_ see it, and that, plus the gun that Moran's holding, makes a chill run down John's spine. He closes the folder in his hands and automatically takes a step closer to Sherlock, even though he knows that, against an alpha wielding a gun, not even a sentinel-alpha has much of a chance.

"You've been much slower than I thought you would be," Moran continues, keeping the gun trained on both of them. "Frankly I figured you would have it all worked out from the moment you stepped into my flat. That's what I was expecting, anyway. But it turns out that you were just too fixated on this stupid little omega to see anything else." He smirks lazily. "You've kept me waiting, but it benefitted me, at least. I had that much longer to put my plan into action."

"Your plan?" John repeats blankly, confused and more than a little pissed off, because whatever tiny part of him that might have actually been relieved to see that Moran is okay is long dead. Something's not right, and he only becomes more convinced of that fact when Sherlock slowly straightens up.

"You kidnapped Harry," he says.

"You - _what_?" John demands.

"I did," Moran says, chuckling. "It was pathetically easy. I'm not even sure that you could technically call it a kidnapping, though. All I had to do was tell her that I had a business trip and that I wanted her to return to the Academy a little bit sooner than everyone else. She even packed my bag for me. Never saw it coming."

Cold fury runs through John and he clenches his fist, wishing that he could punch Moran right in his stupidly smug face. It's not the first time he's felt that way, but it's definitely the strongest. "Where is Harry? What the hell is going on? Who _are_ you?"

"I'm not stupid, John. I'm not going to stand here and explain every little detail to you until Mycroft Holmes comes swooping in with the cavalry to rescue you both. Come on. You first, Holmes, unless you want me to put a bullet in you right here. I'm not adverse to doing it, believe me."

Sherlock looks furious, but he obeys. Moran beckons them both forward with the hand holding the gun, and when they get close enough he grabs hold of John. There's no time to react, and by the time Sherlock tries to make a move, the cold barrel of a gun is already nudged up against John's temple. The feel of it is sickening, though John does his best to pretend that he's unaffected.

"Don't even think about it. I've been waiting a long time to kill him, and seeing the expression on your face will only make it sweeter. Unless you want to know what it's like to lose your mate now instead of later, I suggest you start walking. Keep your hands at your sides, visible, at all times. Remember, Holmes, John's fate is up to you."

"I'm not his mate," John mutters, though he's not sure the words actually come out. Moran's arm is locked around his throat and he can hardly breathe, never mind speak. 

Ignoring him, Moran takes a step forward and forces John to move, too. Any hesitation on John's part is met with a tighter grip around his throat, until he either agrees to walk or is choked unconscious. Sherlock's jaw visibly tightens, but he starts walking ahead of them by a couple of steps, following Moran's instructions without protest. They head back outside, but instead of walking towards the dorms, Moran orders them in the complete opposite direction. Away from any people. 

"You and your sister were really just collateral damage in this whole mess, if that's any consolation," Moran says into John's ear. "If it weren't for your parents, I wouldn't have been interested in either one of you in the first place. So you can thank your mum and dad for being so worried about their precious little guide-omega that they slipped your sample into the System months ago without letting you know."

John stumbles, stunned, kept up only by the pressure of the arm around his neck, and Moran laughs again, soft and dark. Ahead of them, Sherlock glances over his shoulder. His eyes are narrowed and John can tell he's listening intently to every word, though aside from that his face is expressionless. But despite Moran's objections to them standing around talking, he doesn't start moving again. He starts talking.

"Didn't know that, did you? Of course, if it hadn't been for Mycroft doing the exact same thing, Sherlock would have never come up as a match for you. And you wouldn't have mattered. So I suppose you can thank him, too. I'd been on the watch for that match for _years_ , you know. You can't imagine how frustrated I was when Mycroft took as long as he did to submit it. I even started to wonder if maybe he was going to let you die, Holmes, instead of insisting that you be matched. But I guess he loves you after all."

"Shut up," Sherlock snaps, whirling around to face them. "Why would you have been watching for a match to me? What difference does that make to you?"

"What difference? What _difference_? It makes _all the difference_ ," Moran spits. All traces of amusement are gone from his voice now, replaced by rage. "If you had kept your nose out of our business, everything would have fine. But you insisted on poking about, even after you were warned repeatedly. You were so determined to figure out how Carl Powers died and who was behind it.

"James... Moriarty was _fascinated_ by you. He thought you were just so interesting, and he loved putting together schemes for you. He kept a running tally on how long it took for you to solve each one. It started becoming more important to him than our actual work, and because of that he paid less attention to the things that really mattered. Because of you, he was killed three years ago by a member of the Chinese mafia."

The look of shock on Sherlock's face is clearly visible even in the dark. "But... that's - Moriarty's gang is still functioning, how could -"

"It's been me all along, you idiot! I'm Moriarty now. Me. I wanted to make you pay for what you did to him, and I knew the easiest way to do that would be to string you along and make you believe Moriarty was still alive until I had the opportunity to do it. You don't love your brother or his guide or that detective inspector. You didn't love your parents. You didn't care about _anything_. The only thing you love are cases, and even without Moriarty there would always be more of those. I wanted to watch you suffer, Sherlock Holmes, but until I saw your match come up in the System I didn't have a way to do it."

Sherlock goes stiff all over. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Save it," Moran says, the muzzle of the gun pressing so hard against John's temple that it actually burns. "You're as predictable as the rest of them. As soon as a I saw the data, I knew that Mycroft would never let it go. John here is a perfect match for you. It was only a matter of time before he bribed or blackmailed you in there to prove it. How else do you think that place got you to taste John's sample in the first place? The government is made up of idiots, mind, but do you honestly think they're stupid enough to be that incompetent? That they would actually give you the sample of someone who has left the program? Do you realize the kind of trouble they would be in if there wasn't someone around who could cover that sort of mistake up?"

It's hard to look at Sherlock and see his humiliation when he realizes how neatly he played into his brother's hands. John ends up closing his eyes out of desperation, focusing on his own breathing in an effort to stave off the fury and grief rampaging through his own body. But it's not working. There's a horrible suspicion creeping up in the back of his mind, one that he really does not care to face, but, no matter how hard he tries to stomp it back down, it just keeps oozing back up.

Because if all of this is true, and he has the feeling that it's not just the ravings of a madman and that it is, than it means that none of this has been a coincidence. Even the deaths of his parents, that car crash that took their lives - all of it was orchestrated by the man standing right behind him. And all because Sherlock likes to solve cases. It's almost enough to make John laugh, just because it's so utterly bizarre, but laughter will ultimately lead to crying and he needs to hold himself together if they're going to make it through this alive.

"My parents," he says hoarsely, forcing the words out. "You..."

"Ah, yes. I have to confess that I did engineer a little accident for your parents, John. I had to get my hands on you and Harry, and having them around just made that too difficult. Plus there was the fact that even though they submitted your sample, they were allowing you two to live on suppressants, and that just wouldn't do. Sherlock would never be able to bond with you unless you were acting like a real omega. It wasn't even that hard; your parents were very trusting people..."

Tears sting his eyes, hot and burning, and John blinks them away with effort. Now is not the time to mourn his parents all over again. When this is over, _if_ he and Sherlock survive, he'll have plenty of time to think about them. He manages to whisper a faint, "Why?"

"I already told you why."

"No you didn't." It's a little easier to speak with the pressure around his throat easing, and John makes the most of it. The longer Moran talks, the more chance that Sherlock will think of something. "You said... Moriarty was fascinated with Sherlock, and then he died. But how is that Sherlock's fault? Why would you go through all this trouble to make sure that Sherlock is the one who suffers?"

"Because it was. His. Fault," Moran hisses, and John doesn't need to see his face to know that he's glaring daggers at Sherlock. "He was a _distraction_. Without him, Moriarty would still be here. Sherlock Holmes took him away from me, and now I'm going to let him know _exactly_ what that feels like."

Sherlock's shoulders relax suddenly, his head lifting slightly. "You were in love with him."

"What?"

"Moriarty. You were in love with him."

"No, I wasn't. That absurd. I -"

"Yes, you were," Sherlock says, a little bit of a light coming back into his eyes. "That's why you were so desperate for me to have a mate. Because that's how you felt when Moriarty died, like your mate had been taken from you. That's why you wanted this sort of revenge." He tips his chin, a sneer pulling at his lips. "You already had a mate, as evidenced by Mary, so... what kept you from going after Moriarty? Did he have a mate as well? Or it was the fact that you're both alphas?"

"You shut your mouth!" Moran roars, swinging the gun away from John to face Sherlock.

John's body reacts of its own accord. Before his mind really registers what's happening, his elbow swings back and drives itself deeply into Moran's diaphragm. Moran doubles over with a choked gasp and John lurches forward. He half-pauses, thinking that maybe he should be trying to get the gun out of Moran's hand to give them a weapon, but then Sherlock is there grabbing his hand. Sherlock jerks him forward, shouting at him to run, and John blindly obeys.


	27. Chapter 27

In the span of about two minutes, Sherlock calls himself every kind of fool. He can’t believe he was so blind as to not realize that there’s been something odd about this case from the beginning. He fell for Moran’s plan hook, line and sinker. And now, thanks to him, there is a psychopathic alpha bent on revenge chasing him and John around the grounds of Huxtable Academy when it’s pitch dark outside and there's no one in sight. A psychopathic alpha with a _gun_ , no less.

Their odds are not looking great, and that becomes even more obvious when John stumbles behind him and goes down hard on his knees and free hand. To his credit, he doesn’t make a sound that would give their location away. But Sherlock can see that the fall hurt just from the twisted look on John’s face, and he swears quietly under his breath as he stoops down. He knows better than this; running around blindly is not going to help the situation, but it seems like all of his decisions lately are poor ones.

John stays on his knees for about a minute, clearly trying to catch his breath as quietly as possible. Finally he pushes himself up and back, looking down at his palm. It’s a little scraped from the gravel. He wipes it on his shirt and then looks up at Sherlock, attempting a weak smile. “I guess now I can tell Mary that her father is okay.”

It takes effort for Sherlock to keep from baring his teeth. He knows better than to point out that there’s a strong possibility that Mary has been a part of this from day one, even though there is. It’s very coincidental that Mary discovered her father was gone and went to John just hours after he and John had met for the first time, not to mention her insistence that the police not be involved in any way. He can’t help thinking that maybe she knew exactly why her father wouldn’t want Scotland Yard or worse, M16, involved.

But even though John’s made it clear that he’s furious with Mary, there’s still some sort of connection there and it’s likely that John will spring to her defence if Sherlock says anything to cast her in a bad light. He knows that alienating John is not going to help the situation, particularly when he can tell that while John’s not in shock, he’s also not coping very well with just having learned that Moran arranged for his parents to be killed. It’s all there in the way that John’s chin trembles with his effort to hold a smile on his face.

And suddenly, Sherlock says, “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, John just blinks in astonishment. Then he says, “You’re - what?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeats, already wishing that he had not spoken. Even if he were the sort of person willing to talk about this sort of thing, it’s not the place or the time. “About your parents, I... if it weren’t for me...”

“Sherlock, don’t.” John closes his eyes briefly, looking very tired and very young. “It’s not your fault. My parents didn’t tell me that they were putting my sample in the system. I don’t even know how they got it. And you had no way of knowing Mycroft would do the same to you, or that we would be matched up. Frankly the only one to blame here is Moran, as I’m pretty sure he’s the only one who benefits from all this.”

All of this is true, and yet it does very little to ease the frustrating knot of guilt lodged in his chest. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek to keep from apologizing again, because at least if this situation _were_ his fault he would be able to make amends. Although, no matter what John says, he can’t help feeling at least partially responsible. He’d never thought that his game of cat and mouse with Moriarty would ever turn into something like this. He hadn’t even known that Moriarty was dead.

He has no idea how he missed that.

“Hey.” Warm fingers close around his wrist, squeezing tight.

Sherlock doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them John is a lot closer. He looks worried, his eyes creasing at the corners, and it just makes sense to lean in and kiss him. John exhales a startled breath at first but sinks into the kiss, tipping his head for better access. Despite that, Sherlock has no intention of deepening the kiss and he keeps it light and soft on purpose. For some reason he can’t discern right then, he’s craving the physical contact with John.

“It’s okay,” John whispers against his lips. “It’s going to be okay, Sherlock.”

“I should be the one saying that to you,” Sherlock mutters wryly, remembering all of those stupid textbooks that spouted off how an omega, even a guide-omega, would be virtually useless in times of crisis. Clearly those authors had never had the fortune of seeing Anthea in action, or John. Lovely, beautiful John, who is getting a familiar expression of stubbornness on his face.

“That’s crap and you know it. Now come on. We have to find a better place to hide than this so we can contact your brother.”

He gets to his feet, graceful in spite of the sling, and pulls Sherlock up with him. Their path has taken them to the side of the school furthest from the front gates. They’ve been crouched in the shadows of what appears to be an old, rundown shed. It’s unfamiliar territory to Sherlock, and he tries to recall the blueprints of the Academy as best he can. If memory serves him correctly - and after the events of this night, he has his doubts about that - there should be a back gate not that far away from their position.

He says as much to John, adding, “But Moran knows these grounds a lot better than I do. He may realize that’s where we’re headed.”

“And it’s impossible to know if he’s got friends here with him.” John wrinkles his nose in frustration. “Well, we could try scaling the walls again.”

“No,” Sherlock says. “It makes us too much of a target.” Well. Not him. John. 

John rolls his eyes like he knows exactly what Sherlock is thinking, but concedes the point. “Fine. Do you have any idea of where he might have hid Harry? That’s probably where Moran is anyway, and I’m not leaving my sister alone with that bastard.”

“She would be here on the grounds. Probably in a place that’s not used very much,” Sherlock replies, his mind already clicking into gear with anticipation. At the same time, though, a sensation that he's not at all familiar with sweeps over him. Doubt. It's sour and ugly, cramping his belly and squeezing his chest. One wrong move now has the potential to get them both killed. How will he know if he's just playing into Moran's game again?

"Okay," John says, evidently unaware of just what road Sherlock's thoughts are going down. "I haven't been on the grounds very much, but I remember Harry telling me that Huxtable Academy wasn't that big. And if Moran and the headmaster really were working together, then it could also be somewhere that only the headmaster would have access to."

Sherlock drops his gaze, staring blankly at the ground. They've been to the headmaster's office so that's out, though it would be folly to hide someone there. It's too public during the day, with students and faculty alike coming in and out. The staff quarters, on the other hand... That building would be separate from the students, and chances are the headmaster has his own private set of rooms. Timothy Huxtable does not strike him as the sort of man who would be likely to share with someone else. 

It would also be a very easy place to corner Huxtable. The stupid man probably never saw it coming, too wrapped up in believing that he and Moran had worked things out. It makes sense, but... what if he's wrong? Sherlock can all too easily envision walking into another trap. They'd been fortunate last time because Moran allowed himself to fall into the trap of talking despite his boasts that he wouldn't, and he doesn't think that will happen a second time. This time, Moran will shoot first and ask questions.

The idea of losing John is unbearable, so painful that the feeling is almost physical in its intensity. The rage of an alpha coupled with the desire to see Moran dead before he can hurt John anymore that follow are intense and leave Sherlock breathless with realization. He went into this not wanting to be mated to anyone, and in doing so ended up in the very situation he sought to avoid. He and John may not be mated or bonded, but his body is reacting as though they are. And that means, without even being aware of it, he has accepted John as his guide and omega.

"Fuck."

John jumps a little, his head instantly turning to scan the area around them. "What? What is it?" he demands, his voice a forced whisper that's still high with tension. "Where is he?"

"No, I..." Sherlock shakes his head and forcefully pushes those thoughts aside, because now is not the time. "I think we should check the staff quarters, John." He says it carefully, half-expecting that John will throw his earlier errors back in his face.

"Okay," John says, like it's just that easy, looking a little relieved to have an actual destination. He even smiles, and Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath at the little rush of warmth and excitement that he's found someone who can smile in the middle of such a dangerous circumstances.

He's definitely in over his head, and he has no idea what to do about it. Embarrassingly enough he fumbles while getting his mobile phone out of his pocket, nearly dropping it on the ground. He somehow manages to dial Mycroft's number, and John presses close enough to him that he can hear too. The two of them are mostly hidden in the shadows, and for a few precious moments all Sherlock can smell is John. All he can hear is the soft sound of John's breathing.

Then the connection clicks through, and Anthea is saying, "Hello? Sherlock?"

"Anthea."

She sounds pissed, but she's a trained agent through and through and the first thing she does is demand, "Where are you?"

"Huxtable Academy," says John.

"I thought as much. We've been trying to track your GPS, but something seems to be blocking your connection. What's your status?"

"We're fine," Sherlock says, comforted by the sound of her voice. "But Sebastian Moran is here. He has at least one gun, likely more, and he's out for revenge." He swallows. "Anthea, he's Moriarty."

"Shit," Anthea mutters. "Sherlock, do not engage. Do you understand me? Back-up will be there in less than twenty minutes. You both will find a safe place and stay there until we arrive. Do not try to get in contact with Moran. I will -"

Whatever else Anthea is going to do, Sherlock doesn't know. There's the sharp crack of a gunshot and he yelps in pain as the phone literally explodes into pieces, fragments hitting both him and John in the face, arms and shoulders. He throws his free hand up too late, his opposite hand stinging with pain, and goes very still when he hears the click of the gun again on the wind.


	28. Chapter 28

Fragments of the mobile phone hit John's face and shoulders, opening up thin lines of pain, and he flinches even as he hears Sherlock swearing beside him. A little frantic now, he turns and bends down, putting his head closer to Sherlock's hands. He can just barely make out the one that was holding the phone. There's definitely several thin ribbons of darkness running across the paler flesh, and a spike of worry hits John deep. If Sherlock's been shot, they're in trouble.

He turns his head slowly, trying in vain to figure out what the direction the shot came from. But there are clouds over the moon and his senses aren't nearly as good as Sherlock's. More than a few inches away from his face, all he can see is a smear of shadows. He glances up at Sherlock instinctively and sees that Sherlock's head is tipped to the right, chin tilted up slightly, barely breathing and as still as a dog waiting to flush out prey. His eyes are focused enough that John knows without a doubt he can see Moran.

John can't help reflecting bitterly that if they were already mates Sherlock's senses would be vastly improved. He wouldn't need to worry about slipping into a zone in the middle of such a dangerous situation, and he'd have probably known Moran was coming long before the man got close to them. Traditionally alphas have little chance of standing up to alpha-sentinels, but Sherlock is a disadvantage right now and Moran is older and driven for revenge. 

For the first time ever, John wishes that they had just gone ahead and mated.

It makes him itch to know that there's an enemy out there that he can't see, but at least they're not in total darkness. He follows Sherlock's line of sight but still can't make out a damn thing; for all he knows, Moran could be two feet away. Fear and instinct make him stiffen, the hair on the back of his neck prickling with awareness and threat. Moran already knows where they are, but that does little to quell the instinct to make himself as small as possible anyway.

"Sherlock," he says, the word barely audible. His fingers are still wrapped loosely around Sherlock's wrist and he can tell that the man's pulse has picked up slightly. The flutter is nevertheless comforting, because it means that Sherlock is still there beside him. Strangely solid and somehow dependable, even though it's contrary to everything that Sherlock stands for.

Sherlock doesn't respond to him, or at least not out loud. He twists his hand around until he can grip John's in his, and his palm is hot and sweaty. He pulls John none too gently to the side at a pace so slow that it feels glacial. John wants to run. He feels the itch to _move_ all the way down to the bottom of his toes, a deep restlessness that makes him yearn to be able to punch Moran right in the middle of his stupid, smug face.

"I see you both," Moran calls out, even though that should be impossible. "If you come out now, Sherlock, I'll make the death of your mate short and relatively painless. After all, he was my responsibility for a few months there. I grew marginally fond of him while he was dating my daughter. You know, it's truly a pity, John. While you were with Mary, I almost considered letting you live. But then you broke her heart over that whole ridiculous army business, and I knew you weren't good enough for her anyway. Omegas that don't know their place don't deserve someone like my Mary."

"Your views are outdated," Sherlock says crossly, one arm pressing John back against the wall. The corner digs into John's shoulder. "Omegas, particularly guide-omegas, don't need to be trapped at home, Moran."

"And _your_ views are just one more reason I'm so glad to be ridding the world of you, Sherlock. I only wish Jim was here to see it. I'll still find it so sweet. Maybe instead of killing your precious mate, I'll show him his place."

"I know my place," John snaps, knowing that he's playing right into Moran's hand but unable to keep from rising to the bait. "It's not my fault that you haven't kept up with the world, Moran. Omegas no longer have to be kept in the home. We can go to school and have jobs."

"But that doesn't change the fact that the army doesn't want you. Or at least, they didn't want you as a _soldier_."

John prickles all over with humiliation. The last thing he wanted was to be accepted only because he was capable of being a guide. The army uses guides like toys, forcibly bonding them to a sentinel and then keeping them in a safe place. Away from the fighting, the danger, never allowed to touch a gun never mind pick one up, useful only when their sentinels require them to keep from falling into a zone. Completely at the mercy of their sentinel to decide when they want to return to civilian life.

It's one of the worst fates he can think of, and if that's the only way he can join the army he'd rather die.

"John is a more capable solider than most of the men out there," Sherlock says, his voice shaking with barely suppressed fury. "And if you can't see that, it's no wonder you're just an alpha. Tell me, was your sheer lack of short-sightedness the reason why Moriarty expressed no interest in you as a mate?"

There's a muted sound, still surprisingly loud, and Sherlock's arm is around his waist and roughly slinging him down. John's knees hit the ground again and he bites back a curse; by the end of this he's going to have bruises on top of bruises. Sherlock presses down on top of him, breathing heavily, and even in the heat of the moment John can't help noticing his scent. It surrounds him now, heady and grounding, and his stomach gives a tell-tale twinge. His skin goes cold, but he pushes it aside because now is _not_ the time.

"Moriarty was my little brother." Each word is carefully enunciated, and this time the rage isn't restrained. "He wasn't my mate, you disgusting waste of space. He was too obsessed with you!"

"Brother?" John mouths, shocked, but at least it explains why Moran got so furious at the idea. He feels Sherlock flinch beside him and turns his head, wishing harder than ever that the moon would come out and give him at least a little sight.

Moran fires the gun for a third time and then John is alone, reeling, and it takes him almost a minute to realize what's happening. And then he only figures it out because he can hear the sounds of fighting, two men - two _alphas_ \- grappling in an all out physical fight right there on the ground, probably no more than twenty feet away from him. It's only the fact that Moran's not a sentinel that's kept Sherlock from being shot and later, when Moran's no longer trying to kill them, _John_ is going to kill him.

Using the wall for support, he drags himself up. He hasn't been shot and he can only hope to God that Sherlock hasn't been shot, either. Though chances are, the idiot wouldn't even notice. He staggers towards the sound of fighting and jumps when the moon finally breaks through the clouds a bit, letting him see, if somewhat poorly, what's going on. Sherlock and Moran are grappling with each other, snarling and biting in turn, vicious and cruel. The gun is discarded on the ground about five feet away from them both; it's a long distance rifle with a scope that's probably built for night vision, which explains how Moran could see them.

"Shit," John whispers when he gets a little closer, because now he can make out the hint of Alpha red shining in Sherlock's eyes. It's combated only by the flecks of Sentinel gold and it means that Sherlock has well and truly lost control; he's at the end of his rope and ready to tear Moran limb from limb.

Getting between the two of them is a death sentence. Not even the police would be foolish enough to try and get close, not unless they were able to pump Sherlock and Moran full of sedatives first. John's not even sure that Sherlock would recognize him right now. He looks around desperately and finally makes a grab for the gun, because even if he can't use it with his arm in the sling, it's better off in his hands than in Moran's.

Then he hobbles closer.

"Sherlock!" he calls, uncertain as to whether there's any hope of his voice getting through. Everyone knows about how dangerous an alpha in a rage is, never mind a sentinel-alpha, and he's not sure what drove Sherlock to this point. Was it just the threat to his life? Was he hit by a bullet? It doesn't look like he's bleeding but it's hard to tell when they're constantly in motion.

God but he hopes not. The thought losing Sherlock is unbearable, causing a sharp spike of agony and adrenaline, because he knows with a bone deep clarity that he'll never find anyone like Sherlock ever again. The man is one of a kind, and John does not want to see him die out here. He grits his teeth and slides his hand out of the sling, gasping through bitten lips at the surge of pain down his shoulder. He's risking pulling his stitches out but that hardly matters, not when Sherlock's life is on the line - 

"Enough!" he yells at them both, terrified, the gun shaking in his grip. "Enough or I'll shoot!"

Moran makes the mistake of shoving Sherlock back and turning to him with a mocking laugh, saying, "You think you'll be able to aim properly enough to try? Go ahead, I dare you -"

Sherlock's snarl is less than human, feral, as he cuts Moran's throat from behind. Moran dies with a look of astonishment on his face and blood pouring down his front. His body crumples lifelessly to the ground. The gun in John's hands shakes even harder than before and he suddenly feels sick to his stomach. Not because of the blood or even the body; he wanted to go to medical school and you can't let those things bother you if you want to be a doctor. But because Sherlock is staring at him now, eyes still deadly and fathomless.

"S-Sherlock," he stutters, his stomach swooping in a way that is not entirely unpleasant. He drops the gun and has enough time to think that was a stupid move before Sherlock is on him, gripping John's shoulders with bruising strength and dragging him close.

"Mine," Sherlock says, staring deep into John. " _My_ guide. _My_ omega."

John could turn him down. Sentinels especially are hardwired not to harm guides. It's an evolutionary construct, similar to how alphas want to protect omegas. He could say no and he thinks, knows, Sherlock would understand. He wouldn't like it, not with everything so close to the surface, but he would accept it and obey. Even though they've slept together, done everything but mate and bond, he knows that much about Sherlock.

He's just not sure anymore that he wants to.


	29. Chapter 29

The red haze is slow to fade from Sherlock's mind, and he's not sure how long he and John stand there, the smell of fresh blood heavy in the air, before the so-called cavalry finally arrives. The creaking of the gates swinging open echoes around them and Sherlock tenses, his grip tightening. He's practically crushing John against him as his head snaps around, staring at the place where people on foot are slipping onto the grounds. Every instinct rushing through him demands that he destroy those intruders before they have the chance to hurt what's his.

It's John who stops him from attacking, lifting his head slowly and reaching up to place his palm on Sherlock's cheek until their eyes meet. Sherlock stares down into the familiar blue eyes, into that familiar face which is marred by new bruises and scratches from the night's exertions. John is smiling, though, a weary, tentative twitch of the lips as his thumb gently moves soothing circles. His other arm is cradled between them, up against Sherlock's side so that he can hold loosely onto Sherlock's shirt, and he lets go to gingerly move his hand enough to press against Sherlock's belly.

The air escapes his lungs in a rush. Sherlock takes a deep breath automatically, tasting blood, yes, but also sweat and grass and something uniquely John. Never once breaking their eye contact, he palms the back of John's head and draws him into a deep, possessive kiss to get more of that taste. It helps to soothe the pounding rage in his blood, especially when John inhales and his tongue comes out to lick cautiously across Sherlock's bottom lip.

"John," he whispers against John's mouth.

"It's over," John says softly, pulling back as lights sweep across the two of them. Moran's body is illuminated for the first time and John flinches at the sight of it. Blood soaks the front of Moran's clothing, seeping into the ground around him. The dark, ugly slash across his throat draws the eye instantly, as does the gleaming knife that caused the wound in the first place. The knife is Moran's, and Sherlock knows he will forever relish the memory of Moran's shocked expression when he registered that the weapon was gone out of his holster, that it was being used against him.

"Sherlock! John!" 

Apparently the scene is clear, either Moran was alone or his accomplices have been arrested, because Anthea is approaching them. She's dressed entirely in black, her hair pulled up in a bun, and Sherlock instantly spies the gun holstered at her hip. The closer she gets the stronger the rage gets and Sherlock growls low in his throat, wanting to give her a warning before she crosses that line and he can't control himself. Anthea freezes, her hands held up to prove that she's not a danger to either of them. 

"Easy, love," she says softly, her dark eyes wide. "I'm not going to hurt either one of you."

"Sherlock, it's okay," John murmurs, rocking back into him, and Sherlock scowls but tries to tamp down on the protectiveness shooting through him. He wants to pick John up and carry him away to a safe place where no one will be able to intervene, where it will be just the two of them with no Anthea and especially no -

"You were taught better than that, Sherlock. Really, what would Mummy say?"

Mycroft. Sherlock's scowl grows deeper, but he eases his grip on John. He doesn't bother to respond to Mycroft's remark, and that earns him a frown that might have been concerned coming from anyone else. Anthea certainly seems to take it as an invitation to start mothering the both of them once she ascertains that Sherlock's not going to try to maul her. She fusses over John's arm and fresh collection of bruises and scrapes and scratches, tenderly petting his hair like he's going to break.

It's irritating to them both, but John doesn't try to push her away, so Sherlock tolerates it. He tenses when a paramedic tries to get too close and feels restless the whole time John is being treated, likes it even less when the paramedics turn their attention to him. At least his own wounds are superficial at best, the worst of the damage being his hand where Moran had shot at the mobile phone, which means he's free to hover over the paramedic tending to John. If the man makes even one wrong move, Sherlock will kill him. John just rolls his eyes the whole time.

His brother comes to stand next to him while a shard of glass is removed from John's cheek, and Mycroft says quietly, "You want to mate with him."

"I can still kill you without being blamed for it," Sherlock says, almost casually, absently flexing his hand. He's fortunate he didn't need stitches. It stings, but the pain is distant. "Lestrade likes me more than he likes you. He'd help me to hide the body."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Sherlock."

"It's none of your business."

"You're my brother."

"As I see it, that means very little."

"I'm sure that you think that way," Mycroft remarks with a sigh. "I didn't keep you away from this case to frustrate you, you know. I knew from the beginning that Moriarty was obsessed with you, and that his end game was to isolate you. I was attempting to keep you both safe." He glances back at John. "Granted, I was unaware that Moriarty was dead and Moran had taken over. In retrospect, I should have realized that the pattern of his game had changed."

"You weren't trying to keep me safe," says Sherlock, disregarding the majority of what his brother just said. He knows better than to believe anything Mycroft says in the midst of chaos. This is Mycroft at his most refined, attempting to regain control. "You were just trying to keep me under your thumb. You were hoping I'd clash with Moriarty tonight. You entered me in the system years ago and had me matched with John on purpose. No doubt you thought John would be a wonderful way to exert more control, only thanks to Moran your plan backfired. Tell me, were you ever intending to admit that this was all planned from the beginning?"

The tightening of Mycroft's mouth speaks volumes, and in spite of everything Sherlock feels satisfied. He doesn't even care that Mycroft had his sample put in the system, because Moran isn't the only reason that Mycroft's plan didn't work out. John is much more stubborn than any of them could have expected. He refused to do what Mycroft wanted right from the get-go, and that hasn't changed. If anything, John has only dug his heels in even more. _Finally_ , there is someone else in Sherlock's life who is impervious to Mycroft.

"I already know you weren't," he adds, when the silence has dragged on long enough that it's blatantly obvious Mycroft does not intend to speak. It's like Christmas. He's about to add something else, perhaps rub this in Mycroft's face just a little more, but a shriek tears his focus away.

"John!"

A small blonde girl comes bounding across the lawn. Before Sherlock can react, she throws herself at John, who stiffens and attempts to extract himself nearly as quickly as she latches on. Anthea, who has been following the blonde girl, quickly shakes her head at Sherlock to stop him from attacking.

"Hello, Harry," John says, finally managing to hold her at arm's length, and Sherlock crosses his arms.

"Oh God," she says, tears streaming down her face. Her only focus is for her brother. She doesn't look at anyone else as she dramatically clasps John's hands. "I've been so worried about you. You should've heard the things Moran was saying he wanted to do to you. I thought for sure that you were going to be dead. I couldn't believe it when that woman told me that you were okay." She lets out a sob and tries to hug him again.

John doesn't allow her to move any closer, though. If anything, he looks more uncomfortable than ever. Sherlock steps forward automatically and feels a little surge of pleasure when John rises and joins him. The paramedic tries to protest but John just ignores him, and Harry looks up at them in bewilderment. A little spark of something defiant flashes through her eyes when she registers that Sherlock is a sentinel-alpha, and she straightens up.

"John?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.

"I'm glad you're okay," John says a little awkwardly. "But Harry... did you know that Mum and Dad put my sample into the system?"

Harry jolts a little. "What? How did you -" she cuts herself off, but it's too late.

"You knew," John says, his voice sharp with disbelief. "You knew, and you didn't fucking tell me? After everything they told us about wanting to leave the past behind, and how I could do anything I wanted, and how we needed to be so progressive... they still went behind my back and -"

"John, it was for your own good," Harry says, wiping at her face with her sleeve. "You would've got to the point where you needed an alpha... It was just to protect you."

"Yeah, well, I didn't need that type of help," John says bitterly, not looking at her. He turns and walks away. Sherlock ignores Harry when she calls after her brother, following. He knows John won't go far, but instinct demands that he keep pace. After the events of the past two weeks, he doesn't want to John more than a foot away, never mind out of his sight entirely.

After a couple minutes, John stops short and says, "I just hate it. I hate when people try to make decisions for me just because they think I'm an omega and that I'm not capable of doing it myself. I'm not stupid."

"No, you're not," Sherlock agrees easily. 

John looks at him sharply. "Surprised to hear that coming from you."

"A stupid man would not have been able to knock Moran off balance the way you did," Sherlock says, smirking. "You're reckless, impulsive, temperamental. You enjoy adrenaline and you're a good shot with a gun. And considering that you're standing here with me even after everything that happened, you don't have the best judgment. But you're not stupid, John."

He snorts at that, shaking his head. "God, sometimes I wonder. I just don't know what to do anymore. Moran's dead. I'm still pissed off at Mary for telling the army about my being a guide-omega. Harry is someone I don't even recognize anymore, not to mention my parents. Then there's your creepy brother, spraying pheromones all over my flat to make me want you. It feels like the rug has been pulled out from under me and I get no say in any of it. And the worst part is..."

"Is..." Sherlock prompts, his heart beating very fast.

"I want you," John confesses, staring straight ahead, his scent suddenly something very complicated. "And I don't know if that's okay, if I even should because everyone else interfered to get us to this point and I -"

Sherlock doesn't let him finish. Raw possessiveness gushes to the surface and he grabs John. "Fuck my brother," he says calmly. "Believe me, it galls me to do anything that Mycroft approves of. But you haven't given in to him, John. Not once. This is not how Mycroft wanted this to happen. He wanted me to have a mate that was in his pocket, but you're not. I never thought..." It's his turn to trail off, and he clears his throat, avoiding John's gaze. "My alpha and sentinel seem to be in agreement about you."

John stares at him for a moment, waiting for Sherlock to meet his eyes. Then, slowly, he smiles. "If it's all the same to you, then, I'd rather fuck you."


	30. Chapter 30

There was a time when John thought the world would have to end before he said yes to an alpha, especially a sentinel alpha. But Sherlock looks so earnest, almost painfully so, his eyes wide as he stumbles over the words that are so difficult for him to say. And John finds that in spite of himself, he can't bring himself to say no. Not when he knows exactly what Sherlock means when he says that his alpha and sentinel are in full agreement. Because it just so happens that John's inner guide and omega feel the exact same way, too.

For a moment after John's spoken, Sherlock doesn't respond. It's like even though his ears heard what John said, his mind hasn't processed it yet. John knows the second he does, though, because he gets crushed into an embrace that makes all of the bruises on his body ache. He doesn't care. He wraps his good arm around Sherlock's waist and holds on just as tightly, tucking his nose into Sherlock's throat so that he can subtly scent him. Even if the familiar smell is marred with blood, it's still a comfort.

He wants to go somewhere with Sherlock, right now before anyone thinks to look for them. Mycroft and Anthea are probably busy doing damage control, Moran's dead, and, after a week of being held captive, Harry is on her way to the hospital. No one is paying them any attention, but it won't be long until people start to demand answers. John doesn't think he can wait that long to get Sherlock alone. If they weren't in a public place where they both nearly died, he might start stripping right here.

"How are you at stealing police cars?" he mumbles, his voice muffled against Sherlock's throat.

"Proficient. I've had plenty of practice on Lestrade's car." Reluctantly, Sherlock releases him. John feels a little swell of warmth when their hands remained joined, relishing that little bit of connection. Sherlock puts a finger to his lips in a request for silence and then leads John back towards the gate, taking a longer route so as not to run into anyone who might stop them.

That's probably exactly why Lestrade catches them. Sherlock scowls fiercely when he catches sight of the man, but Lestrade ignores the look in favour of striding over to both of them and jerking Sherlock into a quick hug. Much to John's surprise, one of Lestrade's arms circles around him, too. The embrace lasts for only a few seconds before Sherlock mumbles something about emotion and squirms until Lestrade, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's theatrics, lets them both go. 

"Sometimes I ask myself why I'm so relieved to see you're not dead. I never do come up with a satisfactory answer," he says dryly.

"It's because you like me better than you like Mycroft," Sherlock says without missing a beat.

"I don't particularly like either one of you, but I suppose you are the lesser of two evils." Lestrade pauses briefly and then groans, evidently recognizing the expression on Sherlock's face. "Let me guess. You don't want to stick around now that the case has been solved, but you find yourself without a drive back."

"You're not doing anything," Sherlock points out. 

"Sherlock!" John says, elbowing him. He looks at Lestrade. "Please? I, uh, I think I'm going into heat again." His face flushes horribly as he speaks, even though it's probably there in his scent for all to smell. "I really don't want it to happen here. Or at the place where I'm staying." He frowns and turns to Sherlock. "Come to think of it, I don't want to go back to your flat, either. It's got too much Mycroft in it."

"That's what I've been saying for _years_."

Lestrade rolls his eyes again. "God save me," he mutters. "Come on, lads. I'll take you to a hotel where you can spend the night on Mycroft's dime. It's the least he can do."

"Thanks," John says quietly, and Lestrade tosses him a wink.

The ride back to London takes a while. John, overcome with fatigue, spends most of it drifting in and out of sleep against Sherlock. His arm aches, but it's a distant pain, and even the rest of newly accumulated injuries are a dull hindrance compared to the cramps that are starting up in his belly. It feels a bit like someone has reached inside, gripped his organs, and is slowly twisting them upside down. The radiating pain is so sharp in his belly and lower back at times that he can't hold back a groan.

It helps when Sherlock shifts them both until he can lay a hand on John's stomach and rub in slow, soothing circles, but only a little. The thought of going into heat is just as nerve-wracking now as it was before, and he wishes that there was something to make it stop until he's better prepared. But the nurse had warned him that the suppressants may not work for long, if at all, and that stress would not help matters. Tonight has basically been one heaping pile of stress, so he's not exactly _surprised_ he's in pre-heat. 

At least he knows where he stands with Sherlock now. That is a comfort, paltry though it may be. Just to make sure, he opens his eyes a little, realizing that the quiet conversation between Sherlock and Lestrade has tapered off, and murmurs, "Sherlock?"

The dark head turns quickly. Sherlock scents him, nostrils flaring, and looks equal parts turned on and concerned. "Yes, John?"

"I want to be a doctor."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrow in confusion, but he nods slowly. "I know. Okay."

Idiot. John just barely stops himself from sighing and shaking his head. It's times likes when Sherlock is such an _alpha_ , because only an alpha would be completely unaware of why that has been or might be an issue. "I meant, I'm going to uni whether you like it or not. I wasn't going to let Moran stop me, and I won't let you stop me, either."

"John, I don't care what you want to do," Sherlock says, sounding faintly exasperated. "I meant what I said to Moran about omegas, particularly guide-omegas. I can't say I would have been thrilled about the army, because statistically sentinels and guides suffer greatly when separated for long distances or periods of time, but I realize that's a moot point. Nevertheless, if you -"

John cuts him off, dragging him down into a kiss. He knows by now that Sherlock will ramble on if John lets him. Normally he doesn't mind at all, but right now he just needs very much to kiss Sherlock Holmes, who might be an idiot and stubborn and too much of a sentinel-alpha for his own good, but who is just right in all the ways that matter. Someday, when he's over being angry at how people have been trying to organize his life without his say-so, John might just thank Mycroft.

Maybe.

"Okay, you two, break it up," Lestrade calls back, and when John pulls back to look the man is watching them in the mirror and trying not to smile. "You're not there yet."

"We would be if you'd let me drive," Sherlock mutters.

"If I'd let you drive, we'd end up at the hospital or in prison. And I hardly think you'd be fine with John around other alphas right now," Lestrade replies.

Sherlock, not having a good answer to that, subsides into sulky silence. John hides a grin and squeezes his hand, breathing a sigh of relief when the lights of London finally appear a few minutes later. True to his word, Lestrade drives them straight to a hotel that's widely known for being able to accommodate omegas in heat. He hands over a credit card with Mycroft's name on it and then drives off, apparently unconcerned that the card could be used for anything, leaving them to check in on their own.

As Sherlock procures them a room, John glances at the sign on the wall that assures complete privacy for all guests: every room and connecting bathroom is guaranteed to be soundproof and scent-proof, meaning that no pheromones can escape, with high quality heating and, more importantly, cooling units. There's an optional cleaning and delivery service, staffed by neutral betas, ready to procure anything that an omega in heat might need. Because everyone knows that once an omega goes into one of those rooms, they won't be coming out for at least three days, probably closer to five.

He flushes at the thought, turning away towards the lift. Sherlock catches up to him. They're on the fourth floor. The lift glides up smoothly and John's heart begins to pound. He's not sure what he's expecting when he takes the card and swipes the lock for the door to open, but it's not the surprisingly quaint room that greets them. The colours are warm blue and grey, and everything looks freshly cleaned. The bed and the bathroom are both enormous, and there's even complimentary bottles of water on the desk to keep them hydrated.

Rather than look around, Sherlock starts stripping unashamedly. "I need a shower," he says.

"I'm shocked they let you rent a room," says John, because upon closer inspection, Sherlock is _filthy_. He was standing close to Moran when he cut the man's throat, even if it was from behind, and there's blood on his shirt and pants. The paramedics had given him some wipes, but they'd done little to help.

Sherlock smirks. "Actually, the clerk seemed to think that I had just won you in a fight against another alpha. She told me repeatedly how romantic she thought it was and even offered a discount for the room." He saunters into the bathroom.

"You... what?" John demands, mortified, running after him. "Did you correct her?"

"No."

"Sherlock!"

"Technically, it was true," Sherlock says, switching the shower on. There must be an excellent water heater, because hot water starts spewing out instantly. He adjusts the temperature and then slips in, closing the door. As the glass walls begin to cloud with steam, his voice floats over the top. "I did, in a way, free you from Moran. Now he has no more hold on your parent's money, or on you and Harry. Both of you will be able to do what you like from now on."

John blinks at that, realizing that he hadn't thought of it that way. He doesn't need an alpha's permission to go to uni anymore. It would be difficult, because most schools are wary about omegas even with an alpha backing them, but he's certain that he could get in on his own merit. His parents had a fair amount of money, and even split between him and Harry there would be plenty for tuition and board. Even if he had to work to fund part of his way through. He doesn't _have_ to mate with Sherlock if he doesn't really want to; with Moran gone, he's entirely capable, now, of building his own future.

He stands there a moment in quiet contemplation of this fact, and then he strips his own dirty clothes off and joins his mate in the shower.


	31. Chapter 31

Sherlock will never admit to the fear that grips him when John doesn’t immediately join him in the shower, nor to the relief that nearly makes him weak in the knees when John finally pushes the shower curtain back. He knows that until now, until he spoke up about it, John hasn’t really stopped to think that Moran’s influence over his life is officially over. With no alpha controlling his every move, John can do whatever he wants - and that includes spending his money on university, even if the army is still not an option. He doesn’t need to mate with Sherlock to gain that measure of freedom.

And while a part of Sherlock demanded he keep quiet, Sherlock had to tell him. Because he couldn't mate and bond with John until he was sure John knew.

In spite of that, John steps into the shower anyway and wraps his un-bandaged arm around Sherlock from the back. His nose bumps against Sherlock’s shoulder blade, and a moment later a kiss is pressed at the base of his neck. “I told myself I’d never want an alpha or a sentinel,” he confesses, barely audible over the shower. “No one told me that... that they could be like you.”

“I’m a freak,” Sherlock says, brutally honest, but for once the hated word doesn’t sting. If being a freak, the anomaly, is what attracted John, he’s fine with that. 

John huffs a laugh. “No, you’re not. You’re just... you’re different. You understand. I didn’t think that anyone would. But are you sure you’re okay with mating? When we first met, you told me that you didn’t want a guide-omega. You were afraid one would slow you down.”

“I was wrong.”

“Sherlock...”

He twists, the slipperiness from the water making it easy, and looks down into John’s blue eyes. “I should have known better, John. Anthea doesn’t slow Mycroft down. If anything, she makes him a hell of a lot more tolerable than he ever was alone. I just didn’t believe that there would be anyone out there who was well suited to me. Most people would think what happened tonight was horrible, not a thrilling adventure.”

“I wouldn’t go as far as thrilling,” John says, his lips quirking into a smile. “I could have done without seeing you kill someone right in front of me.”

Just like that, Sherlock sobers. “John, I -”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.” John shakes his head, his hand sliding down to rest on Sherlock’s hip. His expression is very earnest. “You didn’t... it wasn’t for fun, or because you were being a stupid territorial alpha. You didn't have a choice. Moran was trying to kill us. He would have if he’d had the chance. I don’t doubt that for a second. You just got there first. And I... I didn’t like seeing it, but I’d far rather that outcome than the opposite.”

“Me too,” Sherlock says softly, forever grateful that he killed Moran before John had to pull that trigger. Not that he doubts that John would have done it if pressed because he knows John could have done it. John is capable of killing if it means protecting the people he cares about. But even if he was a traditionalist who kept John from the army and a betrayer who killed his parents, Moran had meant something to John at one time. That was a weight John doesn’t need to have on his conscience.

He cups the back of John’s head and sighs. The water beating down on his back is warm, but John is warmer. It probably won’t be long until he’s in heat, and it will be terrible to ride it out without an alpha. But he’s not sure John is really ready for that, even if he did mention the ‘m’ word. It’s not possible for them to mate without bonding too. Sherlock knows that for certain. If this happens between them, he won’t be able to keep anything back from John, and that’s the kind of forever that nothing can break. 

And for the first time, terrifying though that prospect may still be, he thinks he’s ready for that. John’s not like other guides, other omegas, other _people_. He’s proven that again and again over the past couple of weeks. Sherlock looks at him and he can see a flat in London for just the two of them. He can see John working as a doctor and Sherlock continuing to help Scotland Yard, maybe even one day in a more official capacity. He can see the two of them working as well as Mycroft and Anthea do, except better.

What he doesn’t know is whether John can see that too.

The silence drags on until at last John lifts his head. His hair is wilted from the steam and he looks tired, but his are bright. “We should finish up before the water goes cold.”

“I don’t think it ever does here,” Sherlock says, but turns to grab the soap. It’s high quality, specially formulated to have absolutely no scent whatsoever - an omegas in heat is especially sensitive to scents, and it’s not unusual for them to be unable to tolerate even well-loved smells. An alpha, on the other hand, usually doesn’t take kindly to having another scent on their omega, even that of a soap. 

He rubs the soap between his hands to work up a lather and then proceeds to wash John and himself thoroughly, doing his best to keep the water off of John’s many bandages. A couple of them do get wet, but John just peels them off with a good-natured shake of his head. The paramedic, as some of them are wont to do, had gone a little overboard once he found out John was a guide-omega. This close to his heat, John could probably ask a random alpha on the street for a thousand pounds and get it.

They wash the soap off and then Sherlock switches the shower off, reaching for the soft towels provided by the hotel. John shivers as he wraps one around his shoulders, even though the temperature in the bathroom must be well over what most people would deem comfortable, and says, “That made me feel a hundred times better.”

“Me too.” Sherlock casts a quick glance at the foggy mirror, checking to be sure that he washed all the blood off. His skin still itches as though he didn’t, but there’s none left. It’s all gone. He lifts his gaze to John’s in the mirror and realizes that John is giving him a worried look. For some reason, it makes his heart rate speed up and he clears his throat.

“You must be thirsty. You should drink something.”

“Sherlock.”

Ignoring the quiet sound of John’s voice, Sherlock opens the door. A rush of cool air makes him wince, the towel around his waist offering little protection. Evidently the cooling unit is in fine form. He walks quickly over to the desk and picks up one of the water bottles. When he turns around, already unscrewing the cap, John is standing right behind him. He starts to say something, but Sherlock thrusts the bottle in his face. John rolls his eyes and takes it, downing half the bottle in several quick gulps.

“There,” he says, pulling it away and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ve had some. Now will you please listen to me and stop trying to... to court me?”

“I am not,” Sherlock protests automatically, and then he looks away from the bed and to John’s face and pauses because it occurs to him that - actually, he is. He washed John in the shower and then provided him water, and he was just thinking about how best to rearrange the bed for John’s comfort, and that’s all customary signs of an alpha caring for an omega before a heat.

Fortunately, John smiles at him. It’s a very warm smile. “It’s okay, Sherlock. I like it.”

“You do?”

“I - yeah.” John ducks his head, flushing. “I mean, I can take care of myself. But it’s kind of nice that you want to.”

“The question is whether you want to,” Sherlock says before he can stop himself.

John reddens even more, still staring determinedly at the floor. “I guess... I dunno... Like I said, you’re different. I think... if you want to?” He glances up through his eyelashes.

Now Sherlock’s heart is really racing, because he thinks they might be on the same page, and the only thing John is wearing is a flimsy towel. He’s still damp around the shoulders and his hair is wet and curling, and he looks so delectable that Sherlock would like very much to eat him right there. Because of that, the honest words continue to tumble out. “I want to, John.”

“Thank god,” John says, all traces of embarrassment vanishing. He makes to set the water bottle down but Sherlock stops him, and even though John rolls his eyes again he drinks the rest. While he does, Sherlock strides over to the bed and pulls the comforter off. The whole bed has been washed in a laundry soap that’s similar to the soap they used in the shower, and the sheets themselves are made of a quality fabric that won’t easily stain or aggravate John’s skin.

He’s not expecting the sudden weight against his back that sends him sprawling on his front. He rolls over just in time for John to snatch his towel away and swing a leg across his belly, straddling him with a mischievous smirk. John’s fully hard, aroused in the few seconds it took for him to clamber astride Sherlock, and as his bottom settles against Sherlock’s thighs he can feel a trace of sticky slick already leaking out of him. Sherlock takes a deep breath, inhaling the sweetening scent that’s enveloping him enticingly. 

“You smell wonderful,” he says hoarsely.

“Yeah?” John preens a little, arching his back to better show off his body. He took off his sling when he got in the shower, but his arm is still bandaged. Despite the cuts and bruises, he’s easily the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever seen.

The second he processes that sappy thought, Sherlock makes a face. "Heat is not conducive to my ability to think," he grumbles.

John laughs at him. "I don't think it's supposed to be. You're not supposed to be thinking about cases, you're supposed to be thinking about fucking me. And if you really need a lot of brainpower for that, I'm not sure we're headed in the right direction."

Sherlock growls, thrusting off the bed and flipping them over before John can respond. Now he's the one on top, looking down at his guide-omega. John is still flushed, but for an entirely different reason. His eyes are getting a little glassy and the sweet overtones to his scent are getting stronger as his heat nears. Sherlock can't resist sliding a hand down to John's arse, pushing a couple of fingers between. His stomach clenches in desire at the thick slipperiness he finds, so different from what John's body produces the rest of the time.

"John," he rasps, feeling his control slipping.

"Yeah," John says again, tipping his head up and spreading his thighs, greedily pushing down onto Sherlock's fingers. "Yeah, Sherlock. Go ahead. Mate me."


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only been a month since I updated this story, a month which included the holidays _and_ the new year, not to mention I have not been in a very good place emotionally and mentally. Though I know most of you mean well, comments asking whether I've 'abandoned this story' or about whether or not I'll 'ever update again' are not encouraging. In fact, it is the exact opposite. I do not abandon stories; if they go on hiatus you will be notified. Otherwise please be patient and remember that as a writer of fanfiction, I do my best at something that is time consuming and freely offered. 
> 
> Also, remember that if you want updates or notifications you can visit my [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).

If there's one thing that's been hammered into John's head, it's that being knotted from the back is easier the first few times around. Especially during a heat, when everything is a lot more sensitive. But he resists Sherlock's attempt to flip him over onto his belly, and not just because he won't be able to properly support himself with just one hand in use. 

Instead he pushes his hips down into the bed and reaching up his good hand to thread his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He likes that he can grab on to those curls and Sherlock won't protest or growl at him for it. If anything, Sherlock arches his neck and makes the strain and sting just a little bit harder.

"You sure you want it like this?" he asks, his voice so much rougher now. The swipe of his thumb across John's perineum is absurdly gentle considering the way he's stretching John with three fingers, and his eyes are so blown wide with lust John can't make out any blue.

"Yeah, I am," John says. It sounds trite and cheesy, but he wants to be able to see Sherlock when this happens. He knows that the mating between an alpha and an omega is generally sealed with a bite to the throat. Traditional matings are one-sided, with the alpha being the one to bite; John has every intention of putting his own mark on Sherlock. Because what they have is a partnership, and he wouldn't be here right now if it were anything else. He's less familiar with what happens between sentinels and guides, but he's resolved that he'll do his part in that too.

Sherlock doesn't ask him any more questions, just slips his hand out of John. Instead of wiping the slick off on the sheets, he sticks his fingers in his mouth and sucks with an expression of near rapture. John feels himself flush, even if it's also really hot. He squirms impatiently. The feel of Sherlock's fingers wasn't really enough for what he wanted. But being empty is so much worse. He can feel that emptiness right up inside of him, like the dull ache you get from a toothache. Faint but _there_ , and squirming around only makes it worse but it's like he can't make himself stop either. The longer Sherlock hovers over him without doing anything, the more annoyed he gets.

"If you don't bloody well fuck me right now, I'm going to pin you down and do it myself," he says.

Sherlock eyes him, swipes his tongue between his middle and ring finger, and smirks when he finally slides his fingers back out. "Is that supposed to be a deterrent?" he asks, reaching down with both hands to grab John's hips on either side. He picks up a pillow and pushes it under the flat of John's back to lift him a bit, and in spite of his frustration John feels a little flush of warmth. Even now, Sherlock is still trying to take care of him and it really does mean a lot. Still, the fact remains that he's being a prick.

"Sherlock," he says warningly.

"Okay, okay," Sherlock says, and he's grinning as he lines his cockhead up and slowly pushes inside. John's lips part, but whatever he was about to say never makes it out, lost in the whoosh of breath when Sherlock pushes all the way in. The stretch is incredible, even better than he remembers, and it feels like so much _more_ now. 

He looks up at Sherlock when he freezes, leaning over John with a strange expression on his face. "Alright?" John asks, the word coming out a bit strangled, because he's not entirely sure he recalls how to breathe correctly.

"Fine." Sherlock mouths the word, apparently as incapable of breathing as John, and puts his right hand down above John's shoulder for support. He takes several deep breaths and says, "You feel incredible, John."

"Thanks," John says automatically. There's an itchy heat building under his skin that pushes him to put his hand on Sherlock. He tweaks a nipple just to feel Sherlock jerk and then wraps his hand around the back of Sherlock's head, guiding him down into a fierce kiss. That seems to spark something feral in Sherlock, because a low rumble is John's only warning before Sherlock draws back and then slams back in - but not enough so that his knot is forced inside, and the constant bump of that promise against John's skin is almost more than he can stand.

He tries to push down again, wanting this to be over fast, but Sherlock's grip on his hip is too tight and he can't get the leverage. A guttural sound forces its way out of his throat and he presses his shoulders to the bed, lifting his hips a bit more. There's a savagery in Sherlock's face now that's not unlike the expression he wore when he killed Moran. His eyes glitter with red, and his lips are drawn back to show his teeth, as though he's angry, but John can tell he's not.

He's _not_ , the emotions pulsing through the room are too raw for that. John can feel lust and affection and protectiveness, and it all tastes like something wonderfully sweet on the back of his tongue. He licks his lips, tasting the air like a serpent, and Sherlock surges forward harder, bending nearly double until their faces are right next to each other. He stops thrusting, pushed all the way in except for his knot, and now his eyes are glassing over. John knows this look: it's a zone, Sherlock's getting too overwhelmed, and if John doesn't do something quickly it's going to be much worse than it was last time.

John's eyes fall away from his partner's face, one hand splayed across the small of Sherlock's back to keep him in place. He zeroes in on Sherlock's throat, on that gorgeous column of pale skin that's just begging to be marked, and he pushes himself up even though it makes his arm ache and sinks his teeth deeply into Sherlock's collarbone. Sherlock jerks under him with a startled and pained sound, convulsing like his body is automatically trying to escape, and John holds on tighter as he opens himself up. The tension in his body runs out all at once as _Sherlock_ crashes around and into him, through him, shielding him from the overwhelming presence of everything else in the world.

Just like that, the bond clicks into place and it _hurts_ because it's one-sided, and he falls back against the bed with the taste of Sherlock's blood on his lips, reeling. Sherlock pants something unintelligible, eyes now entirely alpha red and sentinel gold, and then leans down and bites John in return. Right at the base of his throat, and it stings like hell but at the same time it soothes the pain that's buzzing in the back of John's head. The jarring pulse of Sherlock's out of control energy slows and settles as his shields sink deeply into John, using him as an anchor against sliding further. 

Sherlock moans at the sensation of the bond fully manifesting into something gleaming and pure, and his hips drive forward unexpectedly. John yowls in surprise, the sound cut off abruptly as he registers the sensation of being so full he can hardly stand it. The knot is perfectly positioned so as to rub against his prostate and he's coming before he knows what's happening, squirming helplessly as pleasure floods into the bond and comes back magnified. It's just this side of too much and Sherlock stops moving to lick the mark at the base of his throat and murmur wordlessly to him, nose nudging against John's chin in comfort until he stops shaking.

"Damn," John whispers, staring up at his mate, his bonded. He feels weak all over, sated, but he can tell that Sherlock hasn't come yet, and the heat under his skin won't go away until he does. He lifts his legs, wrapping them around Sherlock's waist as best he can, urging Sherlock to rock into him with short, sharp little thrusts. Neither of them can move much with the knot, and John deliberately starts tightening his muscles every time Sherlock rocks forward. It produces a soft, almost pained sound from Sherlock, but his mouth opens in a shock of pleasure each time.

Remembering how it felt to have Sherlock's tongue on his mating mark, John cranes his neck and licks at the mark he left on Sherlock, his tongue tracing the bruise and few drops of blood. He feels Sherlock shudder hard and then a warm heat floods through him, completely different from the itchy heat of before that left him wanting to climb out of his skin. This feeling is familiar already and soothing, and he relaxes back with a satisfied smirk on his face. It's done now. No more zones for Sherlock, no more swoons for him. 

For a couple of minutes Sherlock just stays hunched over him, his breathing shaky, then he lifts his head and looks almost surprised to see John below him. John gives him a smile and reaches up to kiss him again, something softer and sweeter than the passion of before. Sherlock's right hand comes up and, with his index finger, he lightly traces John's mark while they kiss, and John shivers at the surge through their bond. 

"Bad?" Sherlock asks, pausing.

"No. Just... different. It's far more of you in me than I ever thought there would be."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at that, casting a pointed look down between their bodies where they're still joined and will be for some time, and John huffs a laugh.

"Not like that. I meant... I can feel you, up here." He taps the side of his head. "I wasn't expecting it to. Guess I thought it would be just... you shielding me. It goes so much deeper than that. Can you feel me, too?"

"Yes." Surprisingly, Sherlock doesn't sound as upset about that as John expected him to. He adds, "You're not... nearly as loud as I thought."

"Oh, thanks," John mutters, torn between amusement and fondness. He wiggles a bit, testing the hold of the knot, and figures it'll be a few minutes yet. He helps Sherlock to lay down as best he can, so that Sherlock's head is resting on his good shoulder, and they both relax.


	33. Chapter 33

John's heat lasts for about four and a half days. Sherlock is thoroughly exhausted by the end of day three, and spends much of the next day and a half flat on his back and watching in awe as John fucks them both to completion. His cock is actually aching from overstimulation by the time John stirs awake that night and doesn't immediately start squirming around for more; he was told, growing up, that he would be able to match an omega in heat with no problem, but apparently either Sherlock doesn't possess that kind of stamina or it's an acquired thing. 

"Thank god, I think it's over," John says wearily from beside him, his words muffled by the pillow. "God _damn_ my arse hurts."

"I can only imagine," Sherlock says, throwing an arm over his eyes to shield them from the light. The room smells heavily of their combined semen and sweat and John's slick, but it's not unpleasant. Far from it. Even if he does feel the need to take a very long, hot shower and then abstain from sex for the next week or so. He sighs, listening to the sounds of faint grumbling as John picks himself up off the bed and gingerly hobbles into the bathroom.

"This is disgusting, by the way. I hope you know that," John shouts over his shoulder.

Sherlock smiles into his elbow. "You didn't seem to mind at the time."

"At the time I was out of my head with heat, so nothing I said or did really counts, does it? Urgh, it's oozing down my _legs_."

He chuckles at that, finally finding the strength to roll over and sit up. The bed is a mess; the sheets are definitely going to have to be binned in the near future, as he doubts even several washings will return them to their former clean state. He vaguely remembers fucking John up against the wall at some point, and possibly on the table near the window, and in the shower. And on the floor, too, in numerous positions, until John came back to his senses long enough to complain about rug burn on his knees. After that, they'd returned to the bed and hadn't much moved since.

After pulling the curtains open, heedless of his own nakedness and the office building across the street, Sherlock saunters into the bathroom to join his mate - his _mate_ \- in the shower. John mock scowls when he first pulls the curtain back, but steps back to let him in. 

"I think that my aches have aches," he says, winding his arms around Sherlock's neck. At some point, he lost the bandage on his arm. The stitches stand out starkly against his flushed skin. "No one told me that heat was going to require Olympic level training."

"I didn't know," Sherlock admits, cupping a hand over the stitches. When the post-heat flush wears off, they'll probably both hurt a lot. "But it makes sense. It's a lot of activity that neither one of us is really used to."

"Guess that means we should have sex more often, then."

"You told me you were going to cut my dick off if I touched you again the last time I knotted you," Sherlock says, somehow managing to keep a straight face.

John looks mildly abashed. "Shit, I did say that, didn't I? And I was on top at the time, too. Well, we'll give it a few days. Maybe then I'll feel more like letting that gorgeous cock around my backside again."

"Believe me, I'm not in any hurry."

"I'd be more inclined to take that as an insult if you hadn't passed out on me during that third to last round," John says, unable to keep his smile back anymore. "Come on. Let's shower and then have something to eat. I'm starving."

Sherlock thinks he has a memory of eating at some point, though he's not sure how long ago that was. He's the sentinel-alpha here so it's his job to look after John, especially during heat, but eating has never been a high priority for him. He just doesn't think about it when he's _not_ having a marathon shag session, never mind when he is. "We'll order one of everything, just because my brother is the one footing the bill."

Smirking, John nods and grabs the washcloth. They wash each other slowly and carefully, no lust or urgency about them like last time, just a casual intimacy that Sherlock can't help basking in. He kisses the rug burn on John's knees and his tender arsehole and the small of his back and then the stitches on his shoulder, and John smiles down at him like he's something special. It's enough to make him feel a bit dizzy, because he gets to have this for the rest of his life and he's not completely sure what to do with that yet.

John shuts the water off once they've both rinsed and grabs a couple of towels, tossing one over Sherlock's head. "Once we eat, you should talk to Mycroft."

"What? Why?" Sherlock whines, abruptly snapped out of his bliss. Just the mention of his brother's name is like a shock of cold water. The past few days have just been about him and John, mostly because not even Mycroft would dare to intrude on a mating or bonding. His brother has excellent self-preservation skills.

But as soon as Sherlock makes that initial point of contact, that's all going to come falling down around them. He can only imagine how insufferably smug Mycroft is going to be about all this; it's almost enough to make him wish John's heat would make one last surge and keep them in the bedroom for another couple of days.

"Because, Sherlock. We've been hiding away for the past five days and I don't know how my sister is doing. I don't know what happened to Huxtable Academy, or to Moran's body, or if you're going to be arrested for murder."

There's a palpable tension in John's voice and body that stops Sherlock from responding the way he really wants to with another complaint about his brother. He studies John for a moment, realizing that this has been something on John's mind even while he was in heat. "John, I'm not going to be arrested."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. Even if my brother weren't capable of having this whole thing hushed up, Moran was trying to _kill_ us. You. No one would blame me for that," Sherlock says, and he might not have the in depth understanding of the legal system that Mycroft and Lestrade do, but he does know that. He and John weren't bonded or mated at the time, but John was on the verge of heat and in danger from someone who wanted to kill them. And now they are; they're mates and no one take away that sort of claim. No police department in the world is going to arrest him for protecting his partner, particularly not when Moran's ties to Jim Moriarty surface - and Anthea will make sure that they do.

"I just..." John stops, letting his towel fall around his shoulders, and stares at the floor for the longest minute of Sherlock's life. When he finally lifts his head, he looks very tired and his voice is hoarse. "Sherlock, I've lost everything. I can't lose you, too."

" _John_." A little shocked by the unexpected emotion on John's face, Sherlock steps forward and pulls him into a hug. He's not very good at being comforting, but he can smell John's distress just as well as he can feel it through their bond and it's horrible. He wants to say that John hasn't lost everything, but that's not really true. His parents are dead and now so is his guardian. Harry's probably doing fine in the hospital, but from John's account their relationship has drastically changed over the past year and they're no longer close. 

Sherlock has never considered himself to be particularly fortunate, but as he looks down at his mate he realizes that he is. Because Mycroft could have easily dropped him off at the shelter when their parents died. He and Anthea didn't have to keep Sherlock around if they didn't want to. And Sherlock has always known that if something happened to his brother and sister-in-law while they were on a mission, Lestrade would step in and act as a guardian. He's never really worried about what would happen to him because he knows someone will be there.

John doesn't have that luxury.

Reeling a bit from this unexpected realization, he gingerly rubs his hand up and down John's back. He wants to comfort John somehow, but he's not sure what he's supposed to be saying. "I'm not going anywhere," he says at last. "You won't lose me, John, I swear. Mycroft will have taken care of it, you'll see."

"For someone who supposedly hates his brother, you've got a lot of faith in him," John says into his shoulder.

"Now you're being offensive," Sherlock says with a pout, pinching John in the side. "My brother is just... power hungry, that's all. I wouldn't want to deprive him the chance to exert said power."

"Yeah, right," John mutters, but at least when he lifts his head he no longer looks quite as miserable. Sherlock goes to work drying him off, and by the time a beta waiter arrives with some food he notices that John actually looks happy as they share a platter of bread, meat, cheese and fruit.

Right up until there's another knock on the door and Mycroft walks in without waiting for an invitation. John goes white. Sherlock just scowls. "Just because you knock doesn't mean you can enter."

"I can when I'm the one paying the bill," Mycroft says, umbrella swinging gently from his hand. He's not angry, then. "I actually come with a request on Miss Watson's behalf. She is awake and has been asking incessantly to see her brother at the earliest possible time."

John puts down the piece of bread in his hand. He's pale but determined, clasping the bathrobe more tightly around him as he gets up. "Just let me get dressed."

Sherlock shoots his brother a glare.

"Really, Sherlock, you had as long as I could give you. It's within Miss Watson's right to see her brother."

His glare deepens.

Mycroft rolls his eyes.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of _Some Nights_. Thank you so much for everyone who read, gave kudos or left a comment.

To his credit, Sherlock actually shows some restraint once they're outside the safety of the hotel room. John puts up with the possessive arm around his shoulders as they walk through the lobby without comment, knowing that it's not uncommon for newly mated or bonded pairs to be extremely protective over each other. Were he not so wound up over what he's going to say to his sister, he would probably be feeling the same way. 

Mycroft ushers them both into a private car, where Anthea is waiting. She smiles at John and leans over to run a fond hand through Sherlock's hair. He snarls at her, but she just rolls her eyes and turns back to her Blackberry. Sherlock crosses his arms, scoots an extra inch closer to John, and sulks. Mycroft is left looking between his mate and his brother with such a perfect expression of put-upon exasperation that John is hard-pressed not to giggle.

They're not far away from the hospital at all, and before he knows it the car has stopped right outside the main doors. John is the last to get out, and for a split second he actually contemplates pulling Sherlock back into the car and begging the driver to just drive. In the end, he reluctantly climbs out and follows the rest of them inside. He can't stop remembering his last encounter with Harry. She wasn't drunk but she'd definitely been drinking, and her offhand comments about omegas and guides still hurt.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" Sherlock asks as Mycroft leads the way to Harry's room.

John smiles weakly, touched that Sherlock actually thought to ask. "No, it's fine. It probably won't take very long."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows but says nothing, just leans against the wall right beside the door. Concern is practically radiating from him, though, and John gives his hand a quick squeeze before he walks into the room alone. Right away, he is grateful for the fact that Sherlock remained so close. Hospitals were nearly unbearable before, when he had no protection from the pain, suffering and terror of the patients. Harry's emotions in particular would have been overwhelming because of their familial connection.

Now, as he closes the door, Sherlock's shields gather warmly around him like a metaphysical embrace, protecting him as he looks at his sister so that he can't feel anything else. She's reclining in a hospital bed, looking back at him. Her hair is greasy and she looks awful, skin pale and eyes red, a bad bruise peeping out from under a bandage wrapped around her head. There's an I.V. dripping a couple of different fluids into the line attached to her right arm and a heart monitoring machine clipped to her finger.

He clears his throat and says, "How are you?"

"I've been better," Harry says, touching the button that lifts the back of her bed until she's more or less propped upright. "How are _you_?"

"About the same."

"You sure as hell don't look like it."

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when your guardian tries to kill you," John shoots back. He feels a tiny flicker of guilt when she winces, but refuses to feel bad. Moran had never really tried to make nice with him the way he had Harry. Now he knows it's because Moran hadn't thought that John was important enough to get on his side, but he still hates that she sided with Moran so easily. 

"John, I'm sorry. If I had known that he had any intent to harm you... I never thought..." Harry shakes her head, chewing hard on her bottom lip. "What he said about alphas and omegas and everything, it just made sense."

"Only because you were the one who benefitted from it," he says wearily. "Did you care at all that I didn't want to be trapped at home? Or that I didn't want to be mated?"

Harry visibly squirms. "I thought you would come around to the idea. I mean, you must have. I can smell you from over here."

"That's because it was my choice, Harry. I didn't mate or bond with someone because I had to or because someone else made the decision for me," he snaps, clenching his hands into fists. "I did it because _I wanted to_. That's the difference between you and me. I don't want to do things just because my biology says I should."

"Hey!" Harry says, looking insulted. "Mum and Dad taught us better than that. I got carried away, okay? Sue me. I let Sebastian - _Moran_ convince me to go to that school even though I knew I shouldn't have. I was curious to see things from the other way around. Is that so wrong? I'm not a beta, I'm an alpha. Why shouldn't I want to live like one?"

John folds his arms across his chest. A part of him knew that she wouldn't get it, but he'd been hoping anyway. "So is that what you're going to keep doing, then?"

"I... I don't know," she says, taken aback by the question. "I can't go back to Huxtable Academy even if I wanted to. The school has been temporarily shut down while authorities investigate." She licks her lips, avoiding his gaze. "Um... while I was being kept prisoner, I think I went into withdrawal. My doctor is recommending that I go into rehab. Your... Mr. Holmes said that if I was willing to go, he would pay for my treatment."

"And are you? Willing to go?"

She shrugs, picking at a thread on the blanket covering her knees. "I'm not sure I need it."

"You should go," he tells her. There's been too many nights where Harry walked into his room stinking of alcohol, where she came home drunk, when she was more preoccupied with where her next beer would come from than with what would happen after their parents died. He can barely see his sister in this stranger anymore, and maybe rehab won't change that but at least it could give her a second chance. 

"I'm thinking about it."

Her lacklustre response is more than a little frustrating, but John tamps down on the urge to yell at her. If there's one thing he knows about Harry, it's that she's every bit as stubborn as he is. She won't do anything she doesn't want to do. He takes a step backwards. "I'm going to go, then."

"Wait!" she says. "I thought we could, like, hang out."

"No, Harry, I don't think we can. Not right now, anyway."

"But John - Johnny!"

He closes the door behind him on the sound of her voice and finds himself immediately pulled into Sherlock's arms. The rest of the corridor is empty, he realizes, which can't be a coincidence. Not that it matters; he's just grateful for the opportunity to press his nose to Sherlock's throat and scent him, washing away the stench of medication and pain. He lets Sherlock wrap an arm around his shoulders and guide him down to the stairs, where they walk down four flights to the emergency exit that leads outside.

The hospital has a little green area where patients can get some fresh air, and that's where they end up. John sits down on the bench beside his mate and stares at the grass for a long time. He doesn't feel good about the conversation he just had, but at the same time he's not sure how it could have ended any differently. If Harry wants to go to rehab, he thinks he'd like to be a part of her life. But if she doesn't...

"Did Mycroft really offer to pay for Harry to go to rehab?" he asks.

"Yes," Sherlock says. "He told me he had as soon as you went into the room."

"I'll have to thank him," John mutters, because even if Harry refuses, at least Mycroft gave her the opportunity. "Where did they go?"

"They couldn't leave the office for long. Too much to do. John..."

John looks up, recognizing that tone. "What?"

Sherlock hesitates for a long moment, then sighs and says quietly, "Mary was arrested yesterday morning. It turns out that she was heavily involved in Moran's plans. There's even evidence that, on several different occasions, she posed as Moriarty's partner, right up until she became friends with you. At that point she stopped, likely because Moran wanted her to focus on you."

"She... what?" John goes cold all over. Sure he'd considered the possibility that she was part of it, but he hadn't really thought... "Are you sure?"

"I haven't seen the evidence myself, but based on what Anthea said it's very credible. They're still working their way through most of Moran's records. He kept a lot of them, from what I'm told. And also..." Again, he hesitates, clearly not wanting to say it. "John, when she was brought in for questioning she confessed to much of what she had done, though not all of it. What she's said, they have on tape. Anthea told me she suspects Mary's involvement goes a lot deeper. But they won't know for sure until they're finished with the records."

"Christ," John says, putting a hand to his forehead. For the first time, he's almost glad that Mary betrayed him to the army. This would hurt a lot worse if she hadn't put those first few cracks in their friendship.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Sherlock. I just - I never thought she'd actually be capable of that. Shows what a good judge of character I am, I guess."

"There is no way you could have known," Sherlock says firmly. "Moran wanted her to fool you, so she did."

John just nods. "What will happen to her? Do you know?"

"I suppose it depends on how much she is willing to cooperate, and just how much she actually did for Moriarty's organization. Given her unique position, she's probably in a position to help Mycroft dismantle a good portion of it and that will go a long way. If you... if you want to see her, Mycroft could arrange that."

"No."

Sherlock looks surprised by the quick answer. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I mean... from what you say, Mary was never really my friend. She could've told me what was going on at any point, but she didn't. She used me, and in the end she and her father nearly got us both killed. I don't want to associate with people like that," John says, but it stings. In spite of what he's saying, for a little while, back in the beginning, he really did think Mary was his friend.

"If you change your mind..."

"You'll probably know before I do," John says with a faint smile, reaching for Sherlock's hand. He doesn't want to think about Moran, Mary or Harry anymore; he wants to sit here with his mate for a while and not worry about anything. He intertwines their fingers and puts his head down on Sherlock's shoulder, pleased to feel the pressure of Sherlock's head atop his a few seconds later.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to follow me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/) for sneak peeks and information on commissions.


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